So . . . that was it?
Where was the big showdown? Everything being decided and over in one huge, dramatic scene? Figures that real life would never follow cinematic patterns. It dragged on, resolving itself in fits and starts.
I was a free woman, on all accounts. Why that freedom felt like a cage, I didn’t understand.
I loaded up with Tennyson in his Jeep and drove south. I figured he’d just drop me home in Florence, but Tennyson encouraged me to stay with him.
“I would worry about you in Florence,” he said. “Someone tried to kill you just two days ago.”
“Why? The police say I’m in the clear.”
“Eh, but why take the chance? Let’s give it a couple days. Come hang out with me,” he said keeping an eye on the road.
Realization blazed through me. “Something is going to happen! You saw it!”
“Chiara—”
“I knew it! You’ve been seeing things about me for a while now.”
“I haven’t seen anything specific regarding you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“This is just common sense talking here. Not some vision I’ve had. I’m a soldier and a psychic tuned into the future emotions of other people. If someone with the intent to harm you gets within a quarter mile of the house, I’ll know. Even better, I’ll know ten minutes before they arrive.”
I chewed on my lip, eyeing him sideways, still not sure I was buying his explanation. Tennyson was good at holding his emotions close, and this seemed a little too coincidental.
I wasn’t letting this go. “Me staying with you doesn’t make sense, Tenn. Either my emotions are a burden to you, or the Tempeste family is still after me and you get caught up in it. Either way, I put you in danger.”
“Every breath is danger for me, sis.” Tennyson scoffed. “But I do feel better when I’m helping someone else.”
“Really? I thought my emotions drove you nuts?”
“They do.” He grinned. “So it sorta balances out, I guess.”
I swatted his arm.
“I hate you.”
“I hate you, too, Chiara. More than you’ll ever know.”
Ah. Brothers.
Fine. I was too emotionally fragile to not accept Tennyson’s offer of support. Besides, it felt good to help and be helped in return.
“Thank you,” I said after a moment.
“You’re welcome.”
The next week passed in relative calm.
I worked from Volterra, spending time with Tennyson. My brother seemed to be doing better. The black moods that had so often encased him in the past were fewer. He smiled more often.
I called Nonna every day. On the third day, I asked her about Babbo and what he was like as a kid. I wasn’t sure why I asked. Maybe some part of me wanted to see Cesare from another angle, understand his decisions better. Or maybe I wanted to create new memories of my father. As a family, we didn’t talk much about Cesare, so I was hesitant to open up an old wound by asking for stories of my father.
But Nonna laughed and told me she loved talking about her only son. She told me hilarious story after hilarious story. Obviously, my father was a bit of a handful as a child. But the stories did little to illuminate his decisions as an adult.
As for the other man in my thoughts, I was lost when it came to Jack, my emotions a confusing muddle.
