CHAPTER 112: TOO MUCH FOR ONE NIGHT.

Thomaso gave a single, thoughtful nod.

"Of course," he said finally. "Of course it is."

He looked toward the window for a moment, the last of the daylight cutting a thin line across his desk.

Then, he looked back at Leo.

"Still, it’s good to finally meet you."

I talked with your father before his...."

Leo’s mouth opened slightly, then closed.

He didn’t know how to respond to that, not when the name Ravanelli still hung in the air between them like an unanswered question.

Thomaso leaned back, fingers steepled in front of him.

"You’ve got his eyes," he said quietly. "Exactly the same."

Leo shifted in his seat, unsure if that was meant to comfort him or confuse him even more.

"Yeah," he said finally, scratching the back of his neck. "Right."

Thomaso smiled again, less amused this time, more thoughtful.

"Don’t worry," he said. "We’ll get to that. In time."

Thomaso leaned forward, resting both elbows on the desk, his expression softening as if he’d stepped back into a memory.

"Your father," he began, almost fondly, "he loved to write. Proper letters, too, ink on paper. Even after emails became the thing, he still preferred a pen."

Leo tilted his head slightly, curious despite himself.

"When he left Italy for Spain," Thomaso continued, opening a drawer from his desk, "he sent me a few."

He brought out a small stack of yellowed envelopes tied neatly with a string.

"These arrived over the years. I kept them all."

He untied the string, carefully sliding one out and passing it to Leo.

"Here. That was one of the first."

Leo unfolded the paper gently, the first words coming into view.

The handwriting was messy but alive, with ink that pressed hard into the page, as if every word carried more than just that.

The letter talked about Spain, about how strange it was at first, how quiet the nights were compared to home.

And near the end, his father mentioned a woman.

"’She’s nothing like the girls back home,’" Thomaso said, smiling faintly as he recalled the line.

"’Maybe that’s what I like about her.’"

Leo chuckled under his breath. "Sounds about right."

Thomaso nodded.

"The next one," he said, handing over another letter, "came about a year later. Different tone, as you’ll see."

Leo opened it.

His father’s handwriting looked a little more rushed this time, his words heavier, though his humour still peeked through.

"She broke my heart," it read at one point, "but don’t worry, I think I found the real one now."

Leo couldn’t help laughing a little. "He actually wrote that?"

"Oh, he did," Thomaso said, chuckling. "He had a way with words, even when he was complaining."

They shared a brief moment of quiet laughter before Thomaso reached for one more envelope, this one newer, the paper still crisp, written maybe five or six years ago.

"This one’s different," Thomaso said, handing it over.

Leo unfolded it, eyes tracing the familiar scrawl.

His father was writing about him.

’Leo’s obsessed with football,’ it read.

’He won’t stop kicking things around. He’s not half bad, either. If he ever turns out good, try to get him in the Italian setup, eh?’

Leo laughed under his breath again, shaking his head.

"I don’t remember much, but I remember he used to like freebies."

Thomaso smiled faintly, watching the boy’s reaction.

"He was proud of you," he said quietly. "Even from far away."

Leo looked down at the page again, feeling something shift in his chest.

The letters didn’t feel like old papers anymore; they felt alive, like his dad was speaking through them.

After a moment, Thomaso leaned back, his tone changing, more deliberate now.

"I spoke to him a few days before the accident," he said softly. "The one that took him and your mother."

Leo looked up slowly, his expression tightening.

Thomaso hesitated, then continued.

"He sounded tired... but calm. He told me something strange. Said, ’If anything ever happens, take care of Leo for me.’"

The room went quiet.

Leo’s face didn’t move at first, but a small tremor in his jaw betrayed the weight of the words.

Before he could process it, a single tear slipped down from the corner of his eye.

He blinked, realising too late, and looked down at it, watching as it slid down his cheek and fell quietly onto his bottoms.

He wiped the next one away with his sleeve, sniffing lightly before forcing a small breath through his nose.

Thomaso said nothing, and just stood up, walking toward the far wall, and took down a framed photo.

It showed two young men, one of them unmistakably Thomaso, the other, a younger, smiling Lucio, with his arm slung around his shoulder and a ball at his feet.

He handed it to Leo.

"That was when we thought we’d make good coaches," he said with a soft grin. "Didn’t go as planned."

Leo stared at the picture, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame.

His dad looked so alive, like he’d been caught inside the frame mid-laughter.

Before he could say anything, the door burst open.

"Mr, I have been looking for the boy, but-!" Marco said quickly, stepping in.

He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes landed on Leo sitting opposite Piatelli.

"Oh," Marco said, glancing between the two men.

"Well, I guess my job’s done, then." He straightened slightly, switching to Italian out of habit.

"I’ll get things ready for tomorrow."

He gave a small nod toward Piatelli, then to Leo, before slipping out the way he came.

Thomaso watched the door close, then turned back to Leo.

"Keep them," he said, nodding toward the letters and the photo.

"They belong to you now."

Leo looked up, surprised. "Are you sure?"

Thomaso just smiled.

"I’ve read the ink out of the letters and stared so much at the photos that sometimes I think I see them moving."

Leo nodded once, clutching the letters and the picture close as he stood up.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Really."

Thomaso rose from his chair as well, walking with him to the door.

He gave a small gesture toward the hallway.

"Get some rest. I’m sure tomorrow will be busy for you."

Leo smiled faintly. "Yeah. I will."

He stepped out into the corridor, the sound of his footsteps fading as he walked away, the stack of letters held tightly under his arm.

Thomaso lingered by the doorway, watching the boy go.

When Leo finally disappeared around the corner, Thomaso exhaled slowly and muttered under his breath, "You left too soon, Lucio."

Then he turned, closed the door behind him, and the office went quiet again.

Leo, though, walked through the whole complex, aimlessly, out of it, until he wandered to the front of his room.

The door clicked softly as Leo pushed it open.

The faint hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room, save for the quiet rhythm of someone typing on their phone.

Regutti—or Carlo, as the others called him, not that it made a difference to Leo, was sitting at the edge of his bed, legs crossed, his gaze fixed on his screen.

The bluish light from it cast an odd glow across his face, his expression unreadable as he looked up at Leo, who paused for a second, his hand still on the doorknob.

He could have said something, maybe a small "hey," or even a comment about dinner, but his mind was too full, still echoing with the sound of Thomaso’s voice and the letters that felt heavier than paper should.

So he said nothing.

He just gave a small nod to no one in particular and walked in.

He went straight to his bed, moving with quiet intent, like someone trying not to disturb something fragile.

His duffel bag sat at the foot of the bed, and he pulled it closer and sat down, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

For a moment, he just stared at the contents inside, shirts neatly folded, toiletries lined up along one edge, and now, the small bundle of old letters resting in his hand.

He opened the bag wider and slipped them in carefully, tucking them beneath a layer of clothes, as though hiding something valuable.

Then his eyes moved to the framed photo.

He studied it for a beat longer, the two young men in the picture, both smiling like they had the world ahead of them.

His father’s face looked so alive, so unburdened, it almost felt unfair.

Without overthinking it, Leo reached under his pillow and slid the frame underneath, face down, where the shadows could keep it safe.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see it; it was just too much for one night.

He sat there for a moment afterwards, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor while the low buzz of Regutti’s phone filled the silence.

Then, wordlessly, he pulled off his top, set his phone aside, and lay down on the bed.

The exhaustion hit him fast, and within minutes, the thoughts, the letters, the images, all blurred together, fading into the soft, steady rhythm of sleep.