Page 64 of Ricardo

Impossible for some people.

Before the silence stretches, a man from the museum board approaches, smiling too broadly. “Judge O’Brien. Mr. Conti. I’m sorry to interrupt, but the mayor is asking for you near the west gallery.”

A rescue, then.

For them or for us, I am not sure.

Patrick turns with practiced ease. “Of course.”

Suzanne smiles at Victoria. “Lovely to see you.”

“You too,” Victoria says.

Patrick offers his hand to Mario again. “Mario.”

“Patrick.”

Then to me. “Ricardo.”

“Judge.”

His grip is firm. Mine is also firm.

There is no contest in it.

There does not need to be.

The O’Briens move away toward the west gallery, absorbed almost immediately by another cluster of well-dressed people who want proximity to power and plausible deniability.

For a few seconds, none of us speaks.

Then Victoria says, softly, “Well.”

Mario exhales through his nose.

“You have been working on restraint,” I tell him.

“Do not start,” he says tightly.

Victoria glances between us. “He was very restrained.”

“He was,” I agree. “By family standards, almost saintly.”

Mario’s gaze remains on the place where Patrick disappeared. “I dislike that man. Intensely.”

“Yes,” I say. “That became clear.”

He looks almost offended. “I was diplomatic.”

“You were diplomatic nearly the whole time,” I agree.

He narrows his eyes at me, then notices Victoria pressing her lips together.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are laughing.”