I sighed, a white cloud of smoke floating in the night’s air from the heat of my mouth.
Strolling through Paris, we made our way to the Left Bank, the heart of the 7th arrondissement, toward the rental apartment my parents owned. After Brando had broken the news to me that he would be staying for a while, I decided to take advantage of the apartment my parents had bought for me when I first arrived. The apartment shared with Colette and Emilia seemed cramped all of a sudden.
Wanting to take advantage of my precious two days off, we decided to venture further out than the Opéra District. We walked side by side in the glimmering darkness, along the banks of the River Seine, silent as the water beside us. The French lanterns along the path, along with the businesses, reflected in the soft black ripples and turned the refulgence of lights into splotches of floating bokeh. An occasional heel against the old cobblestones would give a shortclack, clack, clack.
The cold had turned fierce, using its icy fingers to claw its way through my jacket, finding the skin under dress and stockings. But the shiver that found me was from the invasion, not from the weather.
Neither of us had expected it. Neither of us had seen it coming. We had been enjoying dinner, sitting side by side. I had been leaning into him, whispering. He had been absorbed, lids lowered, hand on my thigh under the table.
At first, I had assumed that in passing someone had accidentally snagged my hair, perhaps a purse or a coat button. When I turned, that’s when I saw him—knife in one hand, my hair in the other, dodging people to get out of the door.
The moment being as unreal as it had been, I pulled my hair forward, checking to make sure the surreal situation was in fact true, and if it was, that he hadn’t cut me or cut a chunk. That’s when the loose hairs that had fallen behind fell into my grasp.
An odd thought had occurred to me then…What is he going to do withmyhair?
Brando had turned my face toward his, his mouth moving but my mind still with the man and the dangling piece of hair in his grip.
“Scarlett.” My name had come as a demand.
“That man.” He had just made it to the door. “He cut my hair.” I opened my palm, the severed strands drifting to the table.
I went to grab Brando’s shirt, but he took off after the hair thief before I could stop him. After a few minutes, he came back, panting, shaking his head. The man had disappeared.
Shock had hit me hard. All I could do was nod and say, good, good. I didn’t want to imagine what else he could’ve done with the knife, especially if he was running and had been found by a seething Italian out for bloodshed.
I shivered again, not for my hair, or the cold, but for Brando. He was so damn stubborn sometimes!
None of this would’ve even happened if he hadn’t…sent me away! I’d be back home, content with the life we would’ve made. I was so…effing lonely…and I was following a damn tragedy, a Shakespearean tragedy, except the characters could’ve been together if Emory’s version of Romeo wouldn’t have been so stubborn and so stupid—
I stopped the rampant rhapsody suddenly, realizing that more than anger, what I felt was resentment.
Needing a break, I stepped off to the side, standing underneath a lantern, looking out at the water. Brando stood beside me, still quiet, but there was no doubt that he fumed inside.
“It’s not much,” he said unnecessarily. He was attempting to keep his temper in check. “You can’t even tell—”
“I don’t give adamnabout my hair!” I snapped.
“Here we go,” he sighed. “A man protects what’s his. If you expect different, then you’re just as mad—” he touched my temple; I slapped his hand away “—as that nutcase.”
“Yes.” I shook my head, my fingers balling into fists at my sides, “Yes, Iammad!”
“You had to be to go to that fucking place. None of this would’ve happened if you would’ve stayed put, did what you came here to do, dance. On a legit stage, not one hidden underground where all thefecciaof Paris go.”
Brando never had to raise his voice to get his point across. He could look a man straight in the face and tell him his life was about to end, by his own hands, and not even show an ounce of emotion. The point of his words was never missed, regardless. If anything, it made him even more intense, a man to be chary of.
He expelled a breath of hot air, white smoke puffing out of his mouth like he was a dragon about to spew fire.
No, he never lost control for anyone—anyone but me.
I blew out a mighty breath of my own, turning to him. He stood underneath the French lantern, beautiful brown eyes glistening, the perfect shape of his face outlined by darkness, making the strength of his bones seem even more pronounced. The smooth texture of his skin glowed bronze under the light.
There was no doubt that his soul fit the part. His physical appearance…
Angelo sbagliata. Misguided angel.
“You’ve never looked better.” There was nothing complimentary about my tone or the comment.
“You must’ve missed a few mirrors,” he said, not missing a beat. “You are so beautiful that it breaks my fucking heart.”
