I started to feel somewhat weak. All of my strength seemed to drain, replaced by more uncertainty and fear. Someone who lived amongst us was the enemy. Perhaps it was a friend, or a man that had given his word to protect us. He could’ve been a man that I made soup for.
Brando’s hands moving caught my attention.We’re probably dealing with the same person who dug through our things at the villa, or someone in cahoots who was put up to it.
I nodded and then started to rub my temples. Brando leaned over until his mouth brushed my ear. “Collette.”Then he signed:Tell me how you feel about her.
I shrugged.I don’t know.
It was the honest truth. Reading her was harder than reading Ciro. She was so aloof that nothing seemed to faze her. She was the most distant person I had ever met. Even when our roommate had been killed, she cried, but it didn’t seem to be for Emilia; it seemed like she cried more for herself.
He signed:Tell her to leave. Tell her it’s not safe for her here anymore.
Do you really think it’s her? She was attacked!
He shrugged, his meaning clear—he wasn’t sure, but he wouldn’t take that chance.She will take our plane to wherever she needs to go from here.
All right!I lifted from the seat, slamming my palm down against the counter.The wallop made a loud slapping noise and stung.All right!
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and released it slowly. Opening my eyes, I found Brando staring at me, my reflection meeting his gaze.
What if it’s not her?I asked.
“One down,” he said. He wrapped his arms around me, picking me up again, going toward the room. “I’m not finished talking without words. Time for bed, Ballerina Girl, but not for sleep.”
Chapter Nineteen
Scarlett
September was the month that Marzio and Grazia had wed. Grazia, from all accounts, was a wonderful, warm woman who loved to make family traditions. After Brando’s grandparents were first married, Marzio had purchased the villa in Positano as a wedding gift to his bride, and ever since, their annual dinner at a good friend’s restaurant in the hills became a thing.
It was an occasion. The women were required to dress up—full-on makeup and hair, beautiful gowns, and the most gorgeous heels Italy could produce. The men were to wear bespoke suits and ties.
A photographer was on hand to capture the elegant evening. He was the same photographer who had captured Marzio and Grazia’s wedding years ago, but his son and grandson came along to help. The photographer, who had to be close to ninety, had followed Marzio and Grazia to Positano before they left for their honeymoon to Greece. Her father had insisted on having a post-wedding celebration in the couple’s new summer home, giving life to the family tradition we took part in.
The married couples were instructed to meet at the entrance to the villa, a lavish area to have pictures taken. It was the same place that Marzio and Grazia had their picture taken on the same date of every year, in the same exact spot.
As far as backdrops went, you couldn’t find another part of the villa that compared. The entrance arched, two towering doors open to the breathtaking mountains of Positano, where other villas were stacked in its crevices like a game of villa dominoes. The entrance welcomed you to the main terrace, where life-sized terra-cotta planters stood on each side of the doors, their inhabitants reaching for the vaulted ceilings, vines spreading like longs arms searching for the perfect juxtaposition of sun and shade.
I had been helping Rosaria and Violet get ready, both of them stunning in crimson (Rosaria) and gold (Violet) gowns, and Brando put a hand to my back, urging me to our room so I could get ready. He had insisted on walking me from one area of the villa to another, not willing to take any chances.
I had chosen a cream and black strapless gown. The top was tight, with horizontal stripes, and melted into a flowing bottom that ballooned out to the floor, the horizontal stripes morphing into an arrow pattern. It even had pockets for me to slip my hands into. I went with fat waves for my hair, soft makeup, and a thickset black rose necklace and bracelet that my mother had sent. The largest rose sat above the neckline of the dress, close to the top of my cleavage. I strapped on a pair of dangerously high black heels that showed a lot of toe and heel.
Lifting the gown, I peeked at the back of my feet—B F. I still smiled like a girl every time I looked at the brand. Brando did too; well, he grinned like a man who was happy with what he saw.
“Baby, have you seen my—” Brando entered the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks.
My breath caught in my throat. The sleeves to his white button-down shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and a black tie hung around his neck, not yet tied. A piece of his hair had come undone, a stroke of brilliant, dark silk against his tan face.
I recovered first. “Comb?” I asked, waving it a bit.
He didn’t blink, only stared at me in a way that made my cheeks burn red with a deep flush.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I whispered. “I know. I always know.”
I hated to see the shock and pleasure on his face turn into an inner war. When emotions threatened to choke him, he always raged, turning the fight in on himself. It’s one thing to hear the words, but another entirely to see the look on a man’s face and know exactly what he’s feeling. He couldn’t tell me, but damned if he didn’t show me.
He motioned to the fugitive strand of hair. “Fix it for me.”
I twirled the comb in my hand, taking the few steps toward him with care. The heels provided a good amount of height, so I didn’t have to strain or make him sit as usual. But I still had to look up at him, the brown of his eyes bright and wanting in the tender light spilling in from outside. As I fixed the wayward strand, his hands explored my body, tangling in my hair, so soft that I barely felt it, along my neck, my shoulders, back and forth against my chest, creating a path down to my hips, where his strong hands came to rest.
