Santo
She’s sure; quietly, stoically confident. There’s a faint smile on her lips as she washes my hands, my face. I don’t grimace, though the alcohol, sharp and cold, sears into the open wounds. I only watch her.
People do not often surprise me. Daniella Vance has surprised me.
“I liked it,” she says, very softly. She kneels before me, dress abandoned and only a throw blanket around her shoulders. Her long hair is loose around her shoulders, and in the firelight she could be a painting, a woman from another time. “It didn’t hurt like I thought it would.”
I brush my thumb over her lip, turning her chin upward so her eyes meet mine. They’re unreadable. “I was gentle.”
She smiles, red brightening her cheeks. She bows her head, returning to her work. “Thank you.”
So, she was afraid then. In some capacity. Yet she faced me like a general in war. Clearly, she enjoyed herself, in the end. Still. I can’t help but respect the bravery; single-minded and pure.
“Who was that man?” she asks as she cleans my knuckles.
“An old enemy.” It’s the only answer I can give. I don’t care to tell her how precarious my position is, or how many betrayals I’ve faced in the last year, or all those that came before, the ones that cost Vittorio his life. “It will be dangerous here, you know. Always.”
She nods. “I understand.”
“I’m the first man you’ve ever been with.”
Now her blush deepens, but again she smiles, lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. “Yes.”
“But have you thought of it, before? Have you wanted a husband? A family?”
She bites her lip, sending a pang of desire through me. As soon as we were done, I wanted her again, and it’s requiring all of my effort now to ignore the howl of want going through me. It wouldn’t take much, would it? To lift her into my lap? To taste her again?
“I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” she admits, almost sheepishly. “My mother died when I was too young to remember her. My father did his best by me, and I love him for it. But I’ve always wanted a family, someone to give everything to.” She startles, seeming to realize the gravity of her words. “Not—I don’t mean with you.”
I lift a brow.
“I only mean, I know it’s duty, for you. You need children. To continue your name, and your bloodline. It doesn’t matter, really.” She shakes her head, unfurling a roll of bandages and carefully binding my hands.
“What?” I prompt her. “What doesn’t matter?”
“It’s silly.”
“Didn’t we agree to be honest with one another?”
A small, pained smile. She sits back on her heels and looks up at me, pliant and firelit and beautiful, blanket sliding to reveal the swell of a bare shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if there’s love,” she finally says. “We don’t have to love one another.”
“No. We don’t.” I study her thoughtfully. “Does that matter to you?”
“It did. But I know I surrendered that right when I agreed to be your wife.” She bites her cheek, looking into the hearth at the roaring flames. “I should go to sleep. I don’t want to keep you up.”
She stands, and I catch her hand as she turns to go. I want to comfort her, to say something she wants to hear. But I have nothing to offer, nothing to promise. I can’t give her love. I don’t know if I’m even capable of it. And even if I were, I’m not eager to be vulnerable again. Love is a weakness. Vittorio was my weakness, and they used him to break me. I can’t be broken again. And I certainly won’t endanger Dani with my affection, any more than I have by simply bringing her here.
I have nothing to promise, so I don’t promise anything. I simply stroke her lips with my thumb. They’re supple, giving beneath the pressure like rosebuds. I kiss her lower lip, savor the reverent touch of her cool fingertips against my bare abdomen. I want her to fold into me, to let me envelope her in my protective arms.
But she’s already pulling away, drifting from the parlor and up the stairs like a ghost, like I’ve imagined her entirely.
* * *
It’s a sleety, cold day. I was up at dawn and I’ve spent the morning on the phone and computer, doing the numbers. They’re good. I’ve hooked in several upstart gangsters, mostly foreigners.
Despite the number of people who have turned on the Amatas in pursuit of their wealth, I still have a cache of connections. My arms and drug dealers have never budged, and they never will. My father and his father’s father forged these relationships, and Vittorio maintained them. All I have to do is follow suit.
That is, if my own enemies, Gregorio at their helm, don’t manage to buy them out. A coup, like the one attempted last year that killed Vittorio, seems most likely. Still, I have something Vittorio didn’t: a mercenary army. Most would guess they could be bought, as I bought them. But after a year learning my ways, my small army is unflinching in its loyalty. And they don’t give a damn who you are—if you come marching here, they’ll blow your head off, whether you’re from some old family or not.
