“Never,” I said, going to her. She stiffened when she felt me come close, and I had a sudden urge to break the coffee cup, to feel its pieces explode in my hand, to feel the warm rush of liquid pulsing against my palm. “Tell me who I married, Scarlett.”
“That’s a—”
“Answer me.”
“Me,” she spit the word out.
“Have I ever taken marriage anything but seriously?”
“No.” Simple. Quick. Said between clenched teeth.
“You aremywife,” I said, closing the gap between us. I lifted a hand to her shoulder, setting a long strand of hair away from her face. My fingertips lingered and she shivered. “You are the only woman I’ll ever want. You are mine. No one else belongs to me. My past hurts you—but it bears no reflection on our future. On who we are. That’s all us. You and me.”
It wasn’t her fault. The jealousy. The hurt. The perception of deceit. Her father had taken a part of her and twisted it into this reaction with his many affairs that she had known about over the years. I had patience for it because I had my issues when it came to that, too.
In the beginning, I had refused to defend myself for what I had done before we were together. I refused to defend any notion that another woman could come close to her. But marriage was a teacher. And she taught me that sometimes both actions and words were needed—more powerful when combined. It was like combating a sickness with medicine and rest.
She was still rigid, but she wasn’t as hard, so I continued, attempting to soften her up. “Even though I did what I did, I was still yours, Scarlett Fausti. I just didn’t know it. I’d never loved before you.” I slipped my hands under her long sweater, wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her even closer. The feel of her skin against mine was home. No barriers. No layers. Only the two of us existing in our own world. “I love you so much, it might be a sin,”I whispered in her ear, in Italian. “L'amore che ci condanna può anche salvarci.”
“The love that condemns us can also save us,” she translated.
“Sì,” I said, running my nose up and down her cheek. “I’d never hurt you—in that way. I know what I stand to lose. I’d die first.” Then I lifted her bruised hand to my mouth and kissed it.
“I—” She swallowed hard. “I—need to—”
I nodded, knowing she wanted to get ready to pick up Maggie Beautiful and Aberto from the airport, and also knowing she needed a little time to process, to get straight with things that were happening. With me and with herself.
After she went into our room, I bundled up before going outside. The men were still at it. Their faces were chapped from the cold, and their clothes clung to them from sweat. When they saw me walk out, their faces dropped before recovering.
“Ready for the run,fratello?” Rocco gave me a pat on the shoulder.
“No doubt.” I used the tip of my shoe to touch a man in the ribs. “You ready?”
“Yeahhhh!” he answered around pants, as if he were back in The Club.
I grinned.
“Brando!” Eunice called from the top of the stoop. She wrapped the sweater around her tighter. “I forgot to tell you! You received a package.” She disappeared back into the house and a few seconds later she came back out holding a square box, a little bigger than my palm.
“Someone left it on the doorstep. I found it last night, after I came home from my weekly poker game. The top was full of snow. I hope it’s not a cake or something edible. Whateveritis, it probably froze and is now defrosted! I wanted to give it to you before I forgot.”
I took the steps two at a time, reaching Eunice before she could even make it down one. She handed me the box and I weighed it in my hand—light.
“It’s probably not a fruit cake then!” She laughed and then squinted against the sun, staring down at the men. “Let me fix them all something to eat. That looks hard. And it’s freezing out.”
“No,” I said, distracted. “They still have to run.”
She frowned before she said, “Okay,” and then went back inside.
The box was wrapped in brown paper, my name and our home address scribbled on the outside. No postmark. Hand-delivered then. Beneath the wrapping was a regular box. Even deeper was what used to be a red rose, a toe tag tied to its short stem. Another note rested underneath the rose and its macabre symbolism—It’s late.Do you know where your wife is going soon? It will not be to dance.
The front door opened and closed. Scarlett strode out in workout gear, ready to beat the pavement. “Just try to stop me, Fausti,” she said.
She was so occupied on making it past me that she didn’t notice the box in my hands, the wilted black rose deep in its coffin, her name on its tag,murderedlisted as the cause of death beneath it.
Chapter Six
Brando
