Free The Few by Nadia Dalbuono Page B

to the window. ‘Those old fuckers are strange — they live in their own tiny worlds.’
    â€˜You’re romanticising it. You’re a useful asset, that’s all.’
    She was tilting her head to one side now. He wanted to fuck her there and then — didn’t care who might walk in.
    â€˜What did you tell him?’
    He shook his head, tired. ‘I told him I was very flattered, that it was good of him to think of me and all that, but I’ve set my course and I intend to keep to it.’
    â€˜Did he buy it?’
    He sighed, rested his head against the back of the chair, and studied the ceiling once more. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he bought it. Was he using them, or was it the other way around? Should he and could he just cut them off, once and for all? And where would it leave him if he did?
    â€˜He just smiled at me like I was some hopeless kid. He said I’d change my mind soon enough, and that he’d be there when I did.’
    â€˜Could he be right?’
    He returned his gaze to her. He wanted to punch her, kiss her, push her down onto her plush white rug. ‘How the hell do I know? I can’t see into the future.’ Then, calming slightly, ‘No, he’s not right. Of course he’s not right.’
    She inclined her head the other way, looking at him oddly.
    â€˜What? What’s the matter?’ He threw up his hands. ‘I thought the point of all this is that I’m honest.’
    â€˜Honest with yourself, Leo.’
    He did roll his eyes this time. ‘What’s going into today’s report then? Am I finally moving over to the dark side, proving all the naysayers right?’ He pushed the air out of his cheeks. ‘I can’t win, can I?’
    â€˜Yes, you can.’
    He ignored her. ‘I’m doing good, really good. Everything’s on track.’ He stopped, and examined his shoes. They were a mess — scuffed and dirty, and a lace was hanging loose. He felt like an actor in a play, delivering lines that weren’t his own. Lately, he’d been wondering whether he was living a life that wasn’t his, wasn’t what destiny had carved out for him: something in his DNA was out of kilter, made him feel like an imposter.
    He looked up again, and saw that she was smiling at him now. ‘I think you need to change breakfast bars,’ she said.
    He had planned to leave it ten minutes longer, get some of the useful talk out the way, but he could feel the heat rushing through him, up from his loins, along his gut, into his chest wall. He couldn’t get a hold of it now — it was too late. He rose carefully from his chair, and she followed him with her gaze, eyes questioning. He came to a stop behind her chair, paused a moment, and then bent low to kiss her neck, the line of her hair, her shoulder blades, and then he slowly pushed his hand beneath her blouse. She moaned, eased her head back against his stomach, reached behind her, and dug her nails into his forearms. Their session would end as it always did — just somewhat earlier than normal.

12
    He picks up the framed photo of Elisabetta, studies it, and inclines his head to one side.
    â€˜Your wife is very pretty.’
    â€˜Who said she’s my wife?’
    He frowns at him, disappointed, like he’s hurt his feelings. ‘Pino, my Pino. Why so defensive?’
    He looks away, unable to keep eye contact anymore.
    â€˜Been married long?’ A beat, then: ‘I hear you have two daughters now.’
    He can no longer bear to remain seated. He gets out from behind the desk, and stands behind the chair, using it as some kind of shield.
    â€˜What do you want?’
    He grimaces at the coarseness of the question, and shakes his head a little. Then, after a while, he says, ‘Just what you can give us, Pino — no more than that.’
    THE FLAT WAS COLD and silent when Scamarcio walked in. He didn’t like being there