“Has the intensity he feels for her abated?” he said in Italian. “Answer me!”
“No,” I breathed. “It hasn’t.”
“She is not even his wife,” he continued in the same language. “You are mywife. I have loved you forever, but I have never loved you as much as I do in this moment. It only grows. Sometimes it fucking strangles me, but I welcome death because it comes from you.”
“You are my husband,” I answered in the same language, meeting his eyes. “I’m here for life and beyond. What we have never dies. It transcends. So you’ll never have to choose between your soul and me. Calm yourself.”
His grip eased, but I wanted him to hold me as fiercely as before. I found my own peace cocooned in his warmth and safety.
“You left me before,” he said.
“Out of fear, but never for—for someone else.”
His eyes rose up, battle worn yet victorious, ready for war against words.
The rest of our conversation took place in Italian.
“I had to say it,” I whispered. I had to say the words “someone else,” which he raged against. “If I am your truth, allow me to speak it.”
“You don’t have to. I can feel it.”
This time, I reached out and fixed his hair. He allowed me to. “The demons sometimes get in the way?” I knew the answer, but I wanted him to recognize it.
“Yes.” He came forward and rested his forehead against my heart, his hands cradling my stomach. “My love.”
The Fausti men had a way of speaking, of spilling their hearts out in riddles, so they wouldn’t give away for free what might cost them. They guarded their words as fiercely as they guarded the women they loved.
I could understand Brando Piero Fausti without the need for words, though. I read his actions as though they were from the book of his life.
Tonight, though, perhaps his burdens could be eased with words. The truth.
“You can still feel sorrow, Brando,” I whispered. “Just because he knew the risks doesn’t mean he deserved to die. It’s all right to feel remorse, even if it goes against what you believe to be true and fair.”
“You are the good half of me,” he said, turning the water off. Without another word, he toweled me off, dressed me in clean pajamas, and put me to bed.
* * *
The next day, Brando was eager to leave for Rome, but he wanted to head out at night.
When we returned, there would be three of us.
Brando wanted me to try and sleep before we left, but Pastini was wide awake, her feet shoving against my side, the rest of her attempting to burrow underneath my ribs.
Usually, Brando stayed up with her, reading or tracing soft patterns over my stomach. It made me feel like she was safe while I tried to sleep. I couldn’t go back to sleep after realizing that he was gone.
Not wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I sought him out. I found him in the first placed that I looked—the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair, staring out of the window.
A hint of the moon’s light shone silver in the room, coating the windowsill in mercury, but leaving him in darkness. The music box tinkled quietly in the background.
Hearing the familiar tune gave me butterflies. But the heaviness that met me at the door made me hesitate. His eyes melted in with the darkness, but even so, I knew they were troubled.
“Can’t sleep?” He didn’t turn to look at me, but he wanted me to know that he knew I was there. Hovering.
“No.” I lifted my hands and let them fall against my stomach. “My mind refuses to shut off.”
He opened his arms. My bare feet padded toward him, and I melted into his embrace once we were situated. Inhaling the scent of his skin, I grew quiet, concentrating on the tempo of our breathing.
Uncle Tito was in his room, listening to music, probably doing a crossword puzzle. He must’ve opened his window to allow fresh air in. The tune drifted into the nursery, replacing the tinkling piano from the music box, another soft lullaby. “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”
