But Mercutio was something special—a kind of substitute brother; while Benito’s brother was out of reach in the Jesolo, he’d given Benito someone to tag after, look up to, try to imitate. He’d initiated Benito into the no-longer-quite-so-mysterious ways of Girls—or rather, Women—just prior to his disappearance. And he’d been something of a protector when there was trouble and Claudia wasn’t around.
Truth to be told, Mercutio was a great deal that Marco was not. He took risks Marco would not even have thought of, and took them laughingly. Marco was so serious—and Benito grew tired of seriousness, now and again.
It was Mercutio’s easy, careless good humor that attracted Benito the most. Mercutio could always find something to laugh at, even when the job went wrong. Mostly, though, nothing went wrong in Mercutio’s hands, and he did everything with a flair and style that Benito could only envy.
“Claudia’s okay—but ye’ll never guess who Valentina’s playin’ footsie with,” Benito replied, smirking.
“Ricardo Brunelli?” Mercutio laughed.
“Less likely’n that.”
“Less likely—the only man less likely would be a Schiopettieri—” He stopped dead at Benito’s widening grin. “You can’t be serious!”
“Dead serious.”
“Dip me in batter and call me fried fish! If Valentina’s a-bedding with a Schiopettieri, can Judgment Day be far behind?” Mercutio’s eyes were wide and gleeful. “I can see I’ve been missing far more than I dreamed!” He let Benito go, and regarded him with a lifted eyebrow and a grin that practically sparkled. “I can see that getting caught up is going to cost me at least the price of a dinner. So tell me, my young wage earner—when do your employers release you for the day?”