POV: Dante
Caruso shakes my hand at the door with both of his, the way he always does firm, warm, the grip of a man performing trustworthiness for an audience of one.
"Wonderful evening," he says. "We should do this again soon."
"Of course," I say.
He smiles. I smile. We both know exactly what this dinner was and neither of us will say it out loud, which is the particular kind of war that men like us fight everything happening just underneath the surface of perfectly civil conversation, like a river that looks smooth from above and will pull you under in seconds if you step into it wrong.
His car pulls away and I close the front door and stand in the hallway for a moment.
Luca appears at my shoulder. He does it so consistently that I have started to wonder if he waits just out of sight until he hears a door close.
"Productive evening," he says.
"Go home, Luca."
