That’s the word that enters my mind, as I watch Stefano. He murmurs to her in soft Italian, his fingers stroking the still smooth skin of her hand.
Slowly, she turns her head to him. And a small, happy smile tips up her lips, so similar to the one he just gave me. “Tesoro mio.”
My eyes burn as he raises her hand to his face, holding it against his cheek. “Sì, mamma.”
But she doesn’t say anything else.
I take a closer look at this room. Several books sit on a bookcase opposite us, well-read and dog-eared. On the table beside her is a sketchbook and sharpened pencil. It looks new. Untouched.
“We can’t stay long.” I find Stefan’s eyes on my face. “They’ll find an excuse to throw us out otherwise, and… she doesn’t like having people in here. Them, I mean. It distresses her.”
My heart fucking breaks at that. His mother has turned back to the window, and Stefan stands, brushing a careful kiss across her cheek.
The humming accompanies us on the way out.
The guards don’t say anything as we leave. I glance over my shoulder, catch them watching us.
Stefan doesn’t seem to care. There’s a lightness to his posture as we walk back to my room in silence, and he follows me inside. He leans back against the door as I sit on the edge of the bed, sliding his hands into his pockets.
My fingers tangle together as I lean forward. “What…,”
I’m not sure that I want to know. But it feels important. Another little piece of the jigsaw, those pieces rapidly adding up to something… unexpected.
This man – he is not what I expected.
“I didn’t grow up here. I grew up in Calabria.”
When I shift, he follows my lead, crossing the room and sitting a few inches away from me. “Iliana – my mother - she was an artist. My father… I don’t know. But it never seemed to bother her, that it was just us. I didn’t know anything about the Cosa Nostra then. Didn’t even give it a thought. We lived in this little village where everyone wandered in and out of each other’s homes, and we were happy.”
He stares down at his hands. “Salvatore hunted her down. She’d run away from him, from the Cosa Nostra, from theirparents. She didn’t want any of it. But he found her in the end, and he brought us here. I was ten.”
Our fingers brush. Slowly, I hook my little finger with his. He sighs. “I hated it. Every second. Salvatore had no children, and he picked me as his heir. I didn’t care, didn’t want it either.”
And his words stumble. “I just wanted to go home.”
A small, sad, dark-haired Stefano in this cold house. Dragged from the sunshine, from peace, into the living hell of the Asante world. “I’m sorry.”
He tips up his shoulder. “My mother… she hated it, too. She didn’t belong here. This house was sucking the life from her. So she ran with me, tried to get me away, but we didn’t get far before he found us again.”
Cold ripples across my back. I almost want to stop him. Don’t want to hear whatever follows.
“He wouldn’t let me see her again until I was twelve.” Such quiet, pained words. “And she was different. Whatever he did, itbrokeher. She didn’t laugh anymore. Didn’t speak at all, really. And she stopped painting, stopped drawing.”
He doesn’t say it.Stopped living.
“Whenever I stepped out of line, he would punish her as well as me. He would stop me from seeing her, take away her books, stop her from being fed, burn her art in front of her. And eventually, I just… did what I was told. It was easier that way, easier than seeing her hurt. Until—,”
We sit in silence, the words left unsaid.Until you came.
It feels as though he’s gifted me something precious. Something that he hasn’t shared with anyone. Instead, he withdrew. Withdrew from the world, keeping to himself. Protecting.
Silent.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For sharing her with me.”
He dips his head in a nod. I study our linked fingers, the swirls and symbols of his tattoos that cover both arms and trickle down his fingers.
A piece of his heart, for a piece of mine.
