“A man I know works this property—does some lawn work from time to time. He told me he saw you here in a wheelchair. That damned woman wouldn’t tell me nothin’, so I figured I’d best check it out for myself.”
Looking between Mitch and his father, I realized why he had seemed so familiar. The resemblance was strong. If I saw him on the street, I would’ve never noticed it, but together, it was undeniable.
“You want to come in?” Mitch said, moving his wheelchair to the side. “You could eat dinner with me.”
“That’d be fine,” Sam said, moving past us. Before he went inside, he stopped to squeeze Brando’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine for yourself, man.” He gave me a strong look to drive the point home and then followed Mitch inside.
I took my seat on the rocking chair once again, watching Brando stare out at the empty road that led to the house. Brando had put on a shirt, but he was still in the same clothes as earlier. Whatever my father discussed with him had taken some time.
“What did my father want?” It had to do with the envelope, I was sure, but what could be done about it then was beyond me. We were leaving the next day for the wedding.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said. Then he turned toward me, but he didn’t speak.
“What about Sam? Will he cause trouble for Mitch?”
“Sam comes and goes,” he said, almost automatic. “Unless you have something he wants, he goes. However long it takes for him to ruin it determines how long he stays.”
“Oh—then should we—”
“Scarlett,” he said, placing an arm on each side of the chair, leaning over, coming close to my face. “As long as Luca doesn’t show up here, I don’t care whose father comes knocking. Not even Eunice’s.”
“He’s dead,” I said softly.
“I know.”
I laughed at that. He wanted to, but our earlier strife stopped him from enjoying the moment. I stroked his jawline, strong enough to cut glass, not realizing that after my laughter had tapered, a smile still lingered on my face. Not until sense returned, feeling like harsh reality.
“I love you so much,” I said. “Will you take me to bed now?”
“Come home with me.” His eyes, not his voice, pleaded. His mouth ordered, but his eyes showed a hint of vulnerability. “Our home.”
“Brando, please don’t make me do this,” I whispered. “Not now.”
“Give me a date.”
He held me prisoner to his gaze, and I wasn’t able to look away. In this light, his eyes were such a mysterious, moonless brown, and the black ring around his irises gave him a deeper dimension—made him fiercer somehow. When he was in the mood to love me, more romantic.Funny how thin the line between those two are.
“I don’t know.” I gave him the truth.
He didn’t like my truth, not then. His eyes narrowed in frustration. The tendons in his arms stretched, as did the cords in his neck, and his veins swelled even more underneath his skin.
“If I go home with you now—” I added my other hand to the other side of his face, my skin cool to his natural warmth “—there’s no turning back for me, Brando. Youwillmake the decision for me. It’s home or my career.”
“You leave me in hell, Scarlett Fausti,” he said in Italian, his voice as cool as my hands. “Get inside.”
“Where are you going?”
“To run.”
“Run back to me,” I whispered, thinking of how he had told me to work out my issues with him.
He kissed my hand in reply and saw me inside before he took off in the dark.
* * *
I set two plates aside for Brando and me, not able to eat without him—or not able to eat at all. He was right. I had been indifferent to him. I didn’t want to deal with the decision. Not then. But I didn’t care to have issues between us unsettled. It made me feel tense and hollow.
Laughter rolled under the kitchen door from the formal dining room. In the background, low music played. My parents’ had a packed house, and after dinner and dessert, a poker game had sprung up.
