She told Leonardo about the meeting that evening.
He was in the Intendente flat, which had become, without being discussed, a place he was in several evenings a week. Not all evenings — they were both too particular about the need for their own space to have collapsed that boundary yet — but enough evenings that Daniel had started taking it as given, the way children took as given the things that happened consistently and without drama.
Daniel was asleep. The kitchen was quiet. She told him about André and the tasca and the paper napkin, sitting at the table with the remnants of dinner between them, and he listened with the stillness that meant he was working hard not to say several things.
When she finished, he was quiet for a moment.
"You turned him," he said.
"I think he was alread
