He raised his glass. ‘Cincin.’
Slowly, so slowly, she took a sip of whisky, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the alcohol, but swallowing it without a splutter.
‘What does cincin mean?’
‘It’s a common toast in Italy.’
‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
‘Guilty.’ The word sprang to his lips and soured his gut. Guilty. He was so guilty, and not simply for his heritage. For so much more. Things he could never undo. Things he could never forget, even if he tried to let himself.
‘I’ve never been to Italy.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Is it beautiful?’
‘Parts are very beautiful.’
Maisie looked down, and then took another sip of whisky, shuddering a little as the liquor went down. ‘It tastes like fire.’
‘Feels like it, too.’ Antonio tossed back the last of his drink, savouring the burn, craving the oblivion. If he closed his eyes he’d see his brother’s face, the smile curving his mouth, his eyes sparkling, everything in him young and carefree for a moment. If he kept his eyes closed that face would change, turn lifeless and pale, the pavement beneath his head wine-red with blood even though he’d never seen his brother like that. Never had the chance.
That was why he needed to keep drinking. So he could close his eyes.
‘Why are you here?’ Maisie asked softly. She’d lowered her glass and was giving him a searching look, her eyes wide and so very green. ‘I don’t mean work. I mean drinking alone late at night.’ Antonio shrugged, about to say something dismissive about needing to work late, but then she skewered him with her next sorrowful observation. ‘You looked so sad. As sad as I’ve felt.’
The quiet admission pierced him right through. ‘You’ve felt...?’
Her lips twisted, her lashes sweeping down to hide her gaze. ‘My parents died when I was nineteen. When I looked at you, that’s what I thought about. You looked...you looked the way I felt then. Sometimes the way I still feel.’
Her honesty felled him. He’d never encountered such raw, simple truth, unvarnished, unafraid. It humbled him and it left him speechless. Finally he found some words, but they weren’t the ones he’d expected. ‘That’s because I’ve lost someone as well, and I was thinking about him tonight.’
What? He never talked about Paolo. Not to anyone.
Certainly not to a stranger. He tried not to think about him, but of course he always did. Paolo was always on the fringes of his mind, in the corners of his soul. Haunting him. Accusing him. Making him remember.
‘Who did you lose?’ Her eyes were sad and yet full of compassion, her face so heartbreakingly lovely. Her auburn hair framed her face in a curly, fiery nimbus, and her mouth was lush, her expression open. Antonio wanted to sweep her into his arms, but more than that he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her the truth, or at least as much of the truth as he could bear to reveal.
‘My brother,’ he said quietly. ‘My little brother.’