I felt flutters in my stomach as the blue SUV pulled up in front of the Bertoli mansion. Unfortunately for me, the only SUV owned by the Bertolis was a dark blue Chevy Tahoe, the irony of which had escaped nobody over the days since Leonard Frakes had tried to run me off the road.
I'd spent the entire last five days holding to the promise that I'd made to my father and to Tomasso, going to the hospital every day starting at noon to help him through the worst part of the day. The first day, I brought him a book, Seveneves. It was supposed to be good and was one of the books that hadn't looked read in his room. "For the hours I'm not here."
"Thanks," Tomasso replied, thumbing through it. "It was a coming home present from Adriana. In her note, she said after all that cut and dry business study, I needed to let my fantastical side out more."
We spent most of the time just talking, sharing memories about growing up in criminal families. "Like I said, in Brazil, the line between the criminal and what is merely seen as good business is often very thin," I remarked during one of the periods the nurses weren't in the room. Don Bertoli had paid well for a private room, and the staff knew not to interrupt us unless it was necessary. "When you come from a country where even the President is a criminal, and the judges are criminals, that line is very hazy indeed."
Tomasso chuckled. "You and my father should have this discussion. He feels much the same way you do. Me? I do see a clear line between right and wrong, and I plan on following that for my life. If that line is at odds with the law, so be it."
The next day, we'd talked about my family. "Unfortunately, my father is a notorious womanizer," I admitted. "It's why I'm so tall, while my sisters are short, and none of my brothers look alike. It's more accepted in Brazil, I think, but growing up, at least three women I called my aunt were actually mothers to my siblings. My mother met my father when she was a member of the Junior Olympic basketball team back in the nineties. He was in his twenties and she was still in her teens. It was a whirlwind romance, but it's from her that I get my height. And the blonde hair, which is totally natural."
"I never suspected differently," Tomasso said. "Not that I can check if the carpet matches the curtains, with that wax job and all."
I blushed, remembering the heat of our romp. "Well, maybe another time. But Mother may have put up with my father's ways, but she didn't like it. The fourth time it happened, she left, and I stayed with my father in Porto Alegre. My mother got an apartment in Rio, and I would sometimes visit her during breaks from school. She got some boyfriends, not that my father cared. They never officially divorced. They are both Catholics, although the fact that they are both adulterous as hell is something I'm not so sure the archbishop would approve of either."
"So how does that make you feel? I mean, a lot of people would say that it would leave you with some psychological issues," Tomasso joked, but with concern in his voice. "Not that we don't both have enough issues already.”
"I've noticed. But yes, I'd say it has hurt my trust issues with men. That man I told you about, Travis, was the first time I said I was in love."
We fell silent, and Tomasso chewed his cookie. "We're pretty fucked up, you know that?"
"We are."
Now, the evening after Tomasso's surgery, I was waiting for him in the driveway, watching as his friend, Jake, got out of the driver's side. His father had left the city for a meeting in Portland after checking in on his son, leaving Pietro Marconi in charge of Seattle while he was gone. Margaret Bertoli would come back the next day, and by the end of the week, his cousin and her fiancée would be back as well. I was actually looking forward to meeting Adriana Bertoli after spending so much time with her mother. I'd heard so much.
"Do you need any help, Jake?"
The blond surfer-boy shook his head. I'd only talked with him or his father a few times in the time I'd been in Seattle, but they did seem like totally different personality types. "Nah, just gotta help the prince here with his bag. He's on crutches, and doing pretty good about it. They didn't even put him all the way under, so other than a case of numb toes, he's one hundred percent."
The passenger door opened, and Tomasso got out, his foot in a new black and foam boot. "Do you need help?"
He shook his head. "No, but it's good to see you. Actually, can you get the door? Steps and these crutches I can handle. The door too? Nah, I'll pass."
I held the door for him while he carefully made his way inside, Jake following behind us. Jake took his bags upstairs while we went toward the downstairs study in the family wing. Tomasso was rock-solid as he made his way to a leather club chair and pivoted around, sitting down and propping his leg up. "So what do you think?"