My hopes were not realized. Chiara did not return.
The police prosecution of the Tempeste family was significantly more extensive than we had originally supposed. The man that Chiara had overheard agreeing to the assassination of the Senator and his family was one of the more powerful enforcers in the Tempeste organization. The hit man the police arrested only added more fuel to the prosecution’s case.
Unbeknownst to any of us, Chiara was one of the prosecution’s most important witnesses, which explained the multiple attempts on her life. The police felt that the contract out on Chiara’s life had been tamped down, but they were wanting to be cautious, as they had been wrong twice now. More importantly, the prosecutors were concerned that Chiara proved unable to keep her name out of the media, potentially damaging her credibility.
As Inspector Paola put it, “I’ve worked too hard and too long on this case to have it ruined by a sensational, romantic summer fling.”
To that end, the judge requested that Chiara be sequestered until the preliminary hearings were over. Specifically, she was to have no contact with me.
“They need her testimony to be unimpeachable,” Tennyson explained when he called. I was sitting in my hospital room, trying not to crawl out of my skin with worry. “Chiara agreed to their terms because the Tempeste family must be stopped. It’s just for a couple weeks. Once the initial court hearings are done and Chiara has given her testimony, she’ll be free to go.”
Chiara and I would have to wait to discuss our issues. And that was that.
I wish I could say that those few weeks passed quickly. But patience was not one of my virtues. Besides, having a body again, being fully in this world after so long as a ghost . . . it was difficult to absorb.
Ironically, my injury helped. Every twinge and ache and sting reminded me of the frailty of my physical body. Of what I had lost and what I had gained.
Tennyson nursed me back to health at Villa Maledetti. He and I were close friends, so being with him was easy. My physical state didn’t change our friendship much.
Most importantly, Tennyson still couldn’t feel my emotions.
Beside that, nothing more of my time in the shadow world remained. I couldn’t see the rifts anymore. We were unsure as to why. Was it the fact that my body was wholly in this world now? But if so, why was Tennyson unable to sense my emotions? Why hadn’t that part returned as well?
We had no answers.
Life went on without Chiara. Nonna returned from her cruise with a new repertoire of hilarious stories. Lucy was entering the last month of her pregnancy, and Branwell was equal parts euphoric and terrified of the babies arriving too soon.
While recovering and waiting to hear from Chiara, I spent my time exploring Cesareil Pompaso’s ramblings and trying to make heads or tails of the architectural schematic. Once I was more mobile, I surveyed the ruined tower, looking for more clues.
My body healed quickly, modern medicine preventing any secondary infections. Two weeks later found me feeling remarkably better physically. My ribs still ached, but otherwise, I felt as complete as I had in . . . centuries.
How long would it be before I stopped marveling at the blood pumping through my veins? Until the novelty of taste and smell and touch became ordinary?
Despite my physical well-being, I missed Chiara terribly. I missed everything about her. Her laugh. Her spunk. Her endless enthusiasm for life.
I craved her touch. Ineededto feel her in my arms. Her curvy body tucked against me. Her breath against my cheek. The light vanilla smell of her perfume. The smooth softness of her hand in mine.
Every day, I wondered—were the police treating her well? Was she lonely? Dante had been allowed to speak with her only once. He said she was doing well. Just catching up on her workload and basically biding her time between court appearances.
How would things be between us when she returned? Did she still feel the same about me? It was one thing to care for someone when the possibility of a real relationship seemed like a distant goal. It was something else entirely to know it could be a reality. The longer we were apart, the more concerned I became. Would she still want me?
For myself, I already knew what I wanted . . . I just needed a chance to convince her of it. I was already planning a campaign. A courtship for the ages. Whatever it took to convince Chiara D’Angelo to spend the rest of her life at my side.
I pondered this as I walked downstairs and into the drawing room of Villa Maledetti, cuffing the sleeves of my shirt.
“Jack!” Chiara jumped up from the couch.
I stopped, all the air punching from my lungs. It had been barely two weeks, but I felt I was seeing her for the first time.
Dark hair loose and curled down her back. Manicured eyebrows over dark, wide eyes. Dressed in leggings and a loose summer shirt. She looked comfy and eminently mussable.
“H-how? Why—” I stammered. Why was she here?
She clasped her hands together. “Just, ya know, in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop in. Say hello.”
She shifted her feet, adorably uncertain.
“Surprise.” She did little jazz hands next to her waist.
