I sat in the study alone with the two empty glasses and the amber light coming through the windows and the sound of the house settling around me, the familiar, specific sounds of a building that had held my family for three generations and had absorbed everything and given nothing back and was still standing.
I picked up my phone.
I called Dane.
"Rome," I said when he answered. "Tonight. Just us. No additional personnel, no advance notice, nothing on any channel that anyone else has access to." I paused. "And Dane. Bring the car, not the jet. I want to arrive without announcement."
"Understood," Dane said. "How many hours do you need before we leave."
I thought about dinner. The three of us, my father had said. I would like that.
"Four," I said. "We leave at ten."
I ended the call.
