“Never.”
“One minute then. Give me one minute.Please.” It wasn’t said with a pleasing tone, but with more force than I had ever used with him.
The tone didn’t impress him. I got the feeling it was the look in my eyes—at war with the front—that had convinced him to let go. Still, he stood close.
I picked up a hefty stone and hummed it with all my strength at the passing train. Wild want had possessed me.
I wanted so badly to…to scream!
The fear ate me up.
I didn’t want to be afraid one effing second longer!
Was this the one? The one I could take apart with bare hands to turn back the hands of time?
I just wanted my big brother back!
My attention was not on Brando, but I could feel him employing that watchful stare on me as the monstrous tantrum continued on. I threw so many rocks and screamed for so long that my arms became numb and my throat sore.
Just before my knees buckled underneath me, two strong arms kept me from collapsing to the ground. It wasn’t physical, no, it never was. Not at its core.
I hid my face in his chest, sniffing, not crying.
“Enough, Ballerina Girl,” he said, voice gruff and low—from strain or emotion, it was hard to tell.
“No.” My voice came out hoarse, almost nonexistent. “It’s never enough.”
“Have mercy on my heart,” he whispered against my hair. “You’re killing me, Scarlett.”
“I’m tired but I can never sleep, Brando.” The words seemed to float from somewhere beyond reach. “I’m so tired.”
He pressed me harder to him, cradling me, keeping both of our hearts solid against each other’s. Breaking meant shattering, but with the two of us…
“You will.” He placed a soft kiss on my temple. “You’ll sleep through the night.”
As usual, his word was as good as his blood. I fell asleep in his arms as soon as he whisperedalwaysin my ear.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brando
The man known as the Music Keeper brought me to New Orleans for the second time.
Rarely did Maggie Beautiful tell me stories about her and Luca. She kept her distance from the subject as much as possible. We both did, if we could help it. But not long ago, I had started going over ideas for Christmas gifts for Scarlett.
This was our first Christmas together. It was the first chance for me to give her something meaningful. The future was never far off, too fucking close, and whatever came from me would have to have significant meaning.
My Ballerina Girl had to remember.
Rarely did I share thoughts. Not even with Maggie Beautiful, though sometimes she had a way of reading me without being forthright about it. “Maternal” could never be synonymous with “Maggie Beautiful” though.
I grinned at the thought.
There were rare times when she came through. Small miracles or mercies.
Maggie Beautiful had started to reminisce about the time she took a trip to New Orleans with Luca while pregnant with me. A man sat next to her on the streetcar, an Italian immigrant who engaged them both in conversation. She described him as old, even back then.
After some small talk—what part of Italy are you from? And you?—the conversation took a turn. The old Italian told her that he owned a shop on Canal Street. He handed her a card with his name and number, reading the print aloud.
