Taking slow steps, he backed me up against the counter, our eyes meeting, both shouting in this war without the use of words. “I’ll allow it,” he said. “Only because I don’t want my wife to beinfelice.” The word came out as a sneer, a taunt.Unhappy.He glanced back at the table and then came in closer, sniffing at my mouth.At the scent, his eyes glowed dangerously. He knew I had been drinking with another man. I refused to cower from the madness in his eyes, though, and stuck my chin up in defiance.
I hadn’t realized, as lost in the moment as I was, that Rocco stood in the doorway of the kitchen, ringing wet, just a white towel wrapped around his toned waist. His tattoos glistened in the soft light of the kitchen, along with the green of his eyes against the jet-black of his hair, his clean smell almost overwhelming.
The white towel didn’t hide much.
“I thought I heard someone screaming,” he said, glancing between the two of us.
In fact, someone was, but it wasn’t a blood-curdling scream, more like a raucous laugh at high pitch. Violet and Mick were getting closer to the house.
As if the thought summoned them, Violet busted through the door, drunk on wine and too much wedding fun. Mick was behind her, pinching her ass, while she continued to playfully avoid his advances.
Mitch came out of—somewhere—his hair a mess, shaking his head in irritation. “Keep it down! People are trying to fucking sleep around here.”
“Come on, Mick,” Violet said, taking his hand, pulling him toward their bedroom. She rolled her eyes at Mitch as she passed him. “Let’s continue the game in our room.”
Mitch watched them disappear, and with another curse, stalked off like a cranky old man whose arthritis had flared up.
“I giochi,” Brando said, and not kindly.Games.The comment was so flippant that I almost expected a curse to come before it.
I started when I realized that Uncle Tito stood with his back to the table, watching the entire situation unfold. He lifted his spectacles, made some excuse about forgetting to put the olive oil away.
Brando pushed from the counter, facing his brother. Rocco’s demeanor changed when he realized that Brando had his guard up. “Out of respect for my home and for me, you will wear clothes around my wife,” Brando said in Italian.
The stare became so intense that I took a step forward, but Uncle Tito shot forward, putting a hand on my arm.
“Your husband must do this,” he whispered in my ear. “Rocco needs this from him. This is the beginning. The trip will secure it, I am sure.”
Reaching for the cross around my neck, I found comfort in its solid presence against my heart.
“I will go on this trip,” Brando continued in their language. “Tobond. But I suggest that you bond with your wife first.”
I didn’t miss the weight he added toyour wife,making the words standout, almost drowning out the others. And, I thought, belatedly, the only reason Brando hadn’t squelched whatever it was Rocco felt, or thought he did toward me, was because he seemed to sense that Rocco needed something from him too.
Rocco flinched. It was subtle, only a twitch of a muscle in his chest, but the truth hit him harder than any punch Brando could’ve landed. “I am glad you are coming,” was all Rocco said before he disappeared again.
Uncle Tito stood for a moment longer, and then he touched my shoulder before he left.
The silence in the room was a mean, gaping thing, inching closer to me. Uncle Tito’s earlier advice, that I should remember that Brando almost died when I did, urged it forward.
“We have lunch with Monica Attigliano and her mother tomorrow,” I blurted, fending it off. “I—I don’t want you to forget.”
Brando turned to face me, studying my face for some time. He slipped out of the jacket, resting it on a chair. The pear was still in my hand.
He rolled his powerful shoulders and then came closer to my face. “Ask Rocco to go. You make better plans with him.”
He turned to go and, before I could stop myself, I pitched the pear at his back. He knew me, though, and his reflexes were fast. There was a good reason why numerous colleges had offered him scholarships back in the day for baseball.
He turned just in time to catch the pear with one hand. Bringing it to his mouth, he took a huge crunching bite. The sweetness overflowed and dribbled down his chin. He licked it up with his tongue, in a way that seemed intimate.
“I bit that forbidden fruit a long time ago,” he said. “Nothing’s changed since.”
I followed behind him to our room, but instead of going in, I went back to the drawings I’d been attempting to work on. I still couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t finish. Not even my own thoughts.
I needed sleep, to find comfort in that deep abyss where no cares are allowed, only peaceful white space.
It could’ve been minutes later, or hours, but I found myself cradled in Brando’s arms.
Morning came, and I slept in our bed, but his side was cold and empty.
