“Ridiculous? Is that what you think our word is?” His grip slackened and I couldn’t tell if he wanted to shake me again or kiss me. The passion in his eyes was all-consuming.
“No, not at all.” I put a hand to my head, attempting to stop a raging headache from coming on. “But that doesn’t change how I feel about this.”
He turned from me and started punching the wooden fence. He was tearing it down, not hard to do, but still, it was unnerving. Though his passion raged, sooner or later it would fizzle, and I had done the right thing for the long run.
Juliette leaving him had sent him deep inside of himself, and after the incident on the lawn when he had gone berserk, he had begun to hold his feelings in. Frustration was coming off of him in raging waves, all pent up with nowhere to go.
I was afraid that he was going to do serious damage to himself though. He was searching for something harder to hit, like the tree not far from the gate.
“Romeo,” I whispered, and I realized that tears streaked down my cheeks. “Please stop.”
In a miraculous turn of events, he heard me and listened. He came over to me, head low, breathing heavy, and wrapped me in his arms.
“You are no trouble,” he whispered. “It breaks my heart when you feel this way, sister. A man is born to protect. I will shield my blood. Or else, what am I good for?”
No, what was breaking his heart was the burden of being true to his word and being true to what he felt for Juliette—all of this heartbreak warfare because of me.
“I know,” I whispered back. “But I refuse to ruin your life. And hers. It’s not fair. To any of us.” I sniffed. “Come on, let’s get some ice for your hands.”
Halfway back to the picnic area, I stopped and had to hold on to a tree. Once steady, I took off, Romeo trailing behind me, until I came to a complete halt when three men standing over the blanket came into focus.
Rosaria was on her feet. Chiara was one-step behind. Vincenzo had already been on his feet, his hands close to the guns in their holsters. The two baby sheep ate at the newcomer’s feet—some of them had hay sticking from their boots.
Romeo, breathing like a lion on the hunt, went to charge Vincenzo, but stopped when he noticed them. The three men focused their attention on us.
Out of the blue, Rosaria released a sob. Everyone turned toward her, and she slapped Rocco with enough force across his cheek that his face turned the opposite way. He wasn’t expecting it. Her silence after was as cutting as any sharpened knife.
She lifted her skirts and huffed past me, muttering choice Italian words under her breath as she did.
“What?” Rocco said, looking after her and then at us. He swallowed hard enough that his throat bobbed. “She has never acted this way before.”
Translation. She never cared enough to pop him one.
“What is that she is wearing?” He seemed dazed, confused. For the first time he seemed to notice our clothes. So did Brando and Donato. “Romeo. Tell me what all of this is about.”
Romeo moved his jaw back and forth, his hateful eyes still on Vincenzo. Vincenzo stood straighter and returned the look. Brando looked between them and then at me.
A loud shriek caused us all to turn toward Rosaria. She was so mad that she wasn’t paying attention to her footing and took a tumble down the hill. Rocco went after her, and when he finally came to where she was stopped, she slapped at him as he attempted to help her up.
All at once, it seemed everyone turned toward Donato and Chiara, who were gazing at each other. He held out a tentative hand, not sure what sort of reception he was going to get, and she flew into him, crying into his chest.
Being a newlywed caused one to forgive a multitude of sins, I thought to myself, and not in a loving way. For some odd reason, Chiara felt like a traitor to me in that moment.
Since our husbands were home safe, I could afford to be mad. I mentally sent Rosaria a high five for expressing her feelings.
All of a sudden, I didn’t want to be there anymore, watching Brando watch me. He had changed in that short time. I felt the distance between us.
We were not the only ones wearing old-school getups either. The three of them could’ve been starring inThe Godfather. Coppola hats. White shirts rolled to the elbows, khaki slacks, vests, and wool sweaters. Boots. All they needed were guns strung across their chests. Though I knew they had weapons on them somewhere.
I picked up my skirts and swallowed hard enough that I heard the gulp. My heart pounded in my chest like an iron fist. “Romeo,” I said, my voice low and soft.
He turned to face me.
“Your word.”
I didn’t need to say anymore than that.
“Not now,” he said. “That is the best I can do.”
