Aldo
Ethan and I had parted from our last meeting on uncertain terms—he unwilling to give me what I wanted and me unwilling to meet his demands.
And yet, here we were.
Back in the same cafe. Sipping our coffees while we stared each other down. Each lost in our own swirling thoughts, assumptions. Fears, maybe. Or judgments.
The tension between us was so palpable, I might have cut it with a knife.
Ethan lifted his mug to sip at his steaming black coffee, the same beverage I’d chosen, and I found myself mimicking the gesture. It was more to give my hands something to do than because I was actually thirsty.
My hands already wanted to shake. That, though, I was certain I couldn't blame on the beverage. The stress of the past weeks, coupled with the sight of my brother’s stern visage ac
