I need to know one thing, though: "Have you decided yet on what you want?"
He doesn't ask what I mean. The throne. The Don's position.
"I don't want it if it means hurting you." He looks away from the road for a moment and at me.
My throat tightens. He doesn't have to spell it out either. We both know what he means. Marcello. Is he willing to give up his rightful seat to spare me pain? Do I want him to? I think of Marcello. My brother. The only other person in the entire world I love, and my throat tightens even more. I don't know Marcello any longer. I haven't seen him in years. Yeah, we talk on the phone, but it's mostly awkward, like,How is the weather? It's not like I can ask him if he put more pressure on big pharma to expand his empire. Or who he’s killed lately. Heused to ask me about my marriage, and I would say it was fine. Lies. All lies. Everything we have said to each other on the phone has been lies. And yet. It wasn't the words. It was what we didn't say. The connection between us. For a few minutes each month or so, we heard each other breathe and knew we still loved each other.
So I have no idea what Marcello would say about Raf's claim. Would he fight with or against him?
Raf takes my hand and squeezes it. "I will never hurt you, princess, not in any way. And if that means staying away from being Don, I will."
But can I ask that of him?
We keep driving with that sitting between us.
As the hills start to fold into the Catskills, he says, even softer, returning to the previous conversation as if the second hadn't taken place. “I would’ve preferred one parent who loved me and a spot on a shelter cot over a whole house that never called me by any name that felt like mine.”
I slide closer on the bench seat until our shoulders touch. “What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
He huffs out a laugh that sounds like relief. “Don’t know that I have one.”
“You do,” I say. “Everyone does.”
He falls silent again, and when I think he won't answer, he admits, “Blue. The dark kind. Like lake water.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Mine’s the color your eyes get when you’re about to do something reckless and kind.”
He chuckles, “That’s not a color.”
“It is now.”
The truck climbs, the trees open, and the sky pours itself over us. When our home finally appears through the pines, I don’t have to say the safe word. He’s already turning up the drive.Home. The word means what it should now.
We park. He cuts the engine. Silence settles like a blanket. He looks at me like I'm the miracle he's been praying for, when it's really the other way around.
I lean in and press my forehead to his. “I love you."
The words are so simple. So honest and so true. I've loved him for so long, so very differently. A teenager's crush, a young girl's hero, a betrayed bride's only hope, and now I'm loving him as a woman who, for the first time in her life, is free.
He doesn't say anything. He takes my chin into his hand and locks eyes with me. But I feel the relaxing of his muscles, see how his eyes mirror my image, I see all the words, all the emotions he's got bottled up inside him. I see him.
The next morning…
The morning air is a bit warmer, the dampness is slowly evaporating, but it still holds the clean scent of pine and wet earth. After my last outing, I feel strong enough to go out again. I need to call Marcello. It's been too long. But not from here. Raffael isn't worried about Marcello tracing my phone signal to this place, but I am. Raffael is willing to risk a war, says he's ready, but that's not what I want. I want my brother and… what is Raffael? Boyfriend? Anyway, I want them to get along with each other. They're the only two men in this world whom I love.
I expect another truck to be waiting in the driveway, a big, armored SUV maybe, something that screams protection and safety. Instead… I freeze. What I see is a motorcycle. No, not just any motorcycle. A monster. Sleek, black, gleaming even under the pale sun.
Raffael’s grin is boyish and smug all at once, pride radiating off him as he steps forward and rests a hand on the bike. "Like her?"
My mouth goes dry. Likeher? The thing looks like it could eat me alive. "That’s… yours?"
"My Ducati," he confirms, his voice laced with satisfaction. He pats the seat. "Ours, if you want it."
I shake my head quickly, backing up a step. "There’s no way I can get on that. No way."
"Come on, bella mia," he coaxes, his tone drops into that dangerous lure he always uses when he knows I’ll give in eventually. He holds out his jacket.Hisjacket. The bastard knows how we girls giggled and vied to be the one wearing it. Not that any of us ever succeeded. It was a price none of us ever got. And now he's holding it out tome. His leather jacket.
"I hate you," I grumble as I step forward so he can put it around me. It's just as I imagined it would be, warm, smelling of him, soft. It envelopes me like a mantle. "What about you?" I can't help but stop and ask.
