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truce as he struggled upright.
    I did so, only after unlocking the door and leaving it wide. Then I scrubbed my cheek with the back of my hand.
    Brad parked himself on the wheeled stool, hunched, his eyes downcast. “What a bloody mess.”
    I cleared my throat, not ready to forgive, but old enough to at least try and understand. “Nothing a broom won’t fix,” I said, ignoring his double meaning.
    He looked up at me, eyes searching. “What the hell are you doing here?”
    “Well, I didn’t ask to come; so you can drop the babysitting reference. And if you think that makes me heartless, you’re probably right, but I prefer ‘professional’.” I moved toward him, the doctor in me winning out over my pride, and handed over an unopened bottle of SANPELLEGRINO.
    Draining its contents in one long swallow, he replaced the lid and set it down next to him. He balanced his elbows on either side of his legs, hands loosely clasped between his spread knees. “They want you to work for Alberto, don’t they?”
    Even two steps from falling-down-drunk, Brad had worked it all out. Only, he didn’t seem pleased in the least.
    “Don’t worry,” I muttered, eying the mess that was my office. “I’ll be out of your way soon enough.”
    A long sigh followed his brief silence. He stood, as if to leave, one hand on the counter to steady himself.
    “Do you always drink so much?” I was surprised by my genuine concern.
    De Torres nearly resurfaced, but Mr. Milton won out. “The last time I had this much to drink, I was with you at The Three Tuns.”
    ‘With you.’
You, the plural pronoun. You, meaning Sammy and Nigel as well. I was only beginning to understand what they had meant to him. That they were probably the family he had always needed.
    “I see.” I managed not to leave a trace of pity or sorrow etched across my countenance.
    He shrugged, dispirited. “I’m not having a good go of it right now, Ms. Brothers.”
    A crack of hairline proportions crept across his Roman visage, reminding me of the veins in Carrara marble. One chip too many, and the statue of David might have shattered. Clearly the Michelangelos of the world needed to exercise extreme care in their delicate surgeries of stone.
    As did I.
    “Do you want help?” I stood there, awkward as a freshman with braces, realizing there was a reason no one had ever come to me for comfort.
    He started to shake his head, his hands halfway up in an affable gesture of surrender, when the crack became a gorge. His fingers sheathed his face, hiding the grief and tears I guessed had been thirty years buried.
    The sound of his quiet anguish was nearly unbearable. I stood there for a long moment wondering if I should find his driver. Wondering if I should leave him alone until he could compose himself.
    Half-hoping he’d turn away, I finally touched his sleeve. “I’ll wait out–” But before I could finish, his hands relinquished their grasp on his face, and he shocked me by leaning in, shoulders heaving.
    Sorrow is unfortunately a necessity, but it is also fearsome. I had hated every second of its intrusion into my life, feeling beaten and cheated by its draining presence, and I longed to take that burden from him despite what
he
had said. Despite what
I
had said.
    I don’t know how long he clung to me, before he finally turned to face me. He was drained, a shadow of the man who had entered.
    “It’s going to be all right.” I pulled back, shaken myself. Some of my hair was stuck to the damp side of his face, the color of it and his stubble nearly indistinguishable. “You loved them. It’s impossible not to have affected you.”
    He shook with a deep, ragged breath. His eyes, dark and filled with emotion, studied me. Before he could say a word, I looked away to hide what little there was of my soul from his penetrating gaze. My lips were tinged with the salt of his tears. We’d kissed once before, and I knew I liked the shape and taste of him just as I had