Enough of the chaos, I headed upstairs.
The idea of Uncle Tito stitching Brando's wound in his condition made me pause on the step. I wondered how steady his hand would be. Would the motions be so ingrained in him that muscle memory would take over and give him a clean suture? Or would he sway and rock to the rhythm of his blood, tying Brando’s eyelid to his eyebrow?
Then I reminded myself of the reason why thetesta dura(hardhead) needed stitches, and my resolve hardened. If he had to live with Vanilla Ice eyebrows, so be it. I wouldn't lend a hand to stop it.
Once in the bedroom, I undressed in a methodical way, the entire time preparing for the battle at hand. The need to organize my thoughts so that I wouldn't regretnotsaying this or that later came at me hard, but all I could think of was the age of the house and all that the walls had seen, all the secrets and arguments and intimate moments it had been privy to over the years.
Listen up, I warned.Stand straight and steady. A few more are coming your way.
I threw on a black, soft, body-skimming nightgown that fell below the calves. Finding socks to cover my feet like Uncle Tito instructed me to seemed like a waste of energy. I brushed my teeth twice for good measure. I performed the usual nightly rituals with my skin. Then I pulled down the covers, punched the pillows a few times, and sat, still as can be.
Rich alcoholic fumes permeated the air a little while later, announcing his arrival. No matter how mad he became, even enraged, he never slammed the door. He wasn’t mad. He seemed more energized by the drink and the fight, but my own anger made me see things all too clearly, past flesh, blood, and bone, straight to the heart.Why doesn’t he ever slam doors, even when he passes the point of pissed off?I tucked the question in for later, after the door shut with a softclick.
All clear on the eyebrow—Uncle Tito seemed to have a steady hand.
After I had refused the rescued heel my husband had offered me, he kept it with him, and he moved across the room, placing it on the table beside his side of the bed.
He said nothing. I said nothing.
He went to a table across from the bed filled with numerous drinks. He uncapped the whiskey, putting it to his mouth. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
I jumped from the bed, reaching him much faster than I thought possible, and yanked the bottle, spraying us both with dark honeyed liquid. It dribbled down his chin, his throat, soaking his shirt.
Before he could snatch it back, I ran to the balcony overlooking our courtyard and flung the entire thing over the side. It landed with a crash. I ran back inside, my bare feet padding in quick and quiet slaps, grabbing what was left on the table, sending them to hell with the rest.
Whiskey served three purposes for Brando: the fuel behind the fire when his temper flared, a balm when he needed to relax, and a touch of freedom when he couldn't find it anywhere else. It seemed to read him, obey him, like a woman.
He came to me then, pinning me up against the wall.
“I love when you get fucking crazy,” he said, putting his mouth to my neck, sucking. “I love you. Love you so much. Come, my baby. Come to me. For me.” He went to remove my gown, but I shoved against his chest, not moving him a microscopic inch.
“Don’t call me baby!”
“Baby,” he said. “Baby, baby, baby.”
Shoving him wouldn’t do any good, so I used the small gap between us to slip through.
“Did you hurt him?” I demanded, backing away.
“Did I hurt him?” He repeated slowly, staying put. “You care.”
“I do!”
His eyes went dark, like clouds had moved over the light of the moon, and he became a different person. Cold. Calculating.
“What about me?”
“What about you?” I returned the question, but it never really was with him.
“You’re mad at me because of him.” He went to the bed and sat down.
“The one memory I had before you and you—you destroy it! For what? An effing shoe? You make me insane with worry because of a HEEL!”
“Tell me who you were worried about. Him or me.”
Ignoring this comment, I stormed the closet, pulling out shoes that I had brought, and started flinging them at him. “Here! I have a bunch more. You could’ve had your pick!”
Spending so much time in the company of Rocco’s men, it was hard not to overhear their conversations from time to time. I heard the men talk about Brando, sometimes so comfortable in my company that they let things slip. They would comment on his impressive strength, or how no one could get close to him, and how his face was impassive at best. No one could read him.
