I took the bounty with thanks, and then set my hand on her wrist, stopping her.
“You had a dream of that man?”
She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “You can feel that?”
“No, your face—” I dallied for a second. “Perhaps I felt it, too. You didn’t like what you saw.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I didn’t. But I actuallysawsomething in real time. Right outside. Brando squeezing his wrist—bruising him.”
Retribution for what Ettore had done to me in Vegas.
“Tell me,” I whispered. “Is he…is he going to kill my husband?”
“What do you feel?” She peered into my eyes, seeing into my truth.
“Ettore hides from me,” I said. “He knows…he knows how to bury his thoughts, so his feelings don’t seem to reflect.”
Sometimes it was easier for me to think of what I could do in terms of water—the person stands at the well, looking down, seeing him or herself, and when all alone, their true feelings show. Reflections bounce, and this peculiar nature of mine catches the feelings instead of the face.
It had always been different with Brando. It was a connection, more than a mere reflection. A strike of lightning through a body—one would forever be connected to the other.
She nodded, a solemn set to her face. “No,” she breathed. “He’s not going to kill your husband. Your husband is going to kill him.”
She went on, describing the dream, but it was hard for me to concentrate. I didn’t want Brando to kill Ettore, just as much as I didn’t want Ettore to kill my husband.
Eva continued to talk through my disquiet.
“Wait,” I said, interrupting her. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“His chest turned black. It stemmed from his heart.”
I quelled the urge to put my hand over my mouth. Brando was going to…follow in Marzio’s footsteps, and what? Steal his uncle’s heart?
“No,” she said, transcribing the look on my face. “It’s different. It’s not physical, but internal. That’s all I know—what I saw. A man tangled up by his own web, eaten up by his own hatred.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
She squeezed my hand.“Nor do I—all of the time. If I did, would God ever be able to speak?” she said in French.
Good point, but it didn’t make me breathe easier. Eva left me with those thoughts, and I took a shower to wash clean all that had been dirtied.
Not even the water made me feel clean enough.
She could be wrong, I pointed out to myself. She had been about the daughter she predicted we would have. Perhaps Ettore could find it in his heart to let go. Brando could do the same.
Hopefully.
Doubtful.
Brando came in as I was getting out, and we switched places. We were both quiet as I towel dried my hair, leaving it to the humidity to style it in tousled waves, and then slipped on an orchid-colored dress that had crisscross straps in the back but flowed easily around my ankles. It was light, the fabric soft.
Brando didn’t seem inclined to speak, and I said nothing, applying a light touch of lip-gloss. Shutting the water off, he tied the towel around his slim waist, his abs on full display.
Each muscle was carved to perfection and rippled when he moved. The longer strands of his raven hair framed his face, and droplets of water ran down his neck and over his shoulders.
Instead of going into the specifics of Ettore’s visit, he put his hands on my hips, his nose in the center of my back, and sniffed up to my neck, leaving a trail of wetness along my skin.
“You smell good,” he whispered, and then his grip tightened on my hips; the fabric bunched in his hands. “I’m the only man you dance with tonight. No one touches your bare skin but me.” He sucked on my neck.
