Chapter 9: Dario

Dario's weight came into my arms all at once, and he was taller than I was.

Blood ran from a split in his eyebrow down the side of his face and dripped onto the robe.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm fine, don't."

"Sit down."

"I'm not staying."

"Dario, sit down."

He sat.

Behind me, Ruggero had pulled on his trousers and shirt in the half minute it took me to cross the room.

He took one look at my son's face, went to the bathroom, and came back with a towel and the first aid kit from under the sink.

I washed the cut with warm water.

Dario flinched and held still.

It was a clean split an inch long, and his lower lip was swollen on one side.

"Who did this?"

"Bianca's driver."

"Why?"

"I was in the study at midnight." He took the towel from me and pressed it to his brow. "I took Dad's phone from the drawer. He saw me come out."

"What did you want with the phone?"

He stared at the carpet.

"You said Dad's last word was your name," he said finally. "I wanted to know if that was true."

"And is it?"

"I didn't look yet. I ran."

I taped a butterfly strip over the cut, and my hands were not as steady as I wanted them to be.

He was nineteen years old.

His wrist was still thin.

He glanced up at the sound of Ruggero shifting behind me, and his whole face closed.