I hadn’t liked it then; I loathed it now.
How easily she went into his arms, how accepting she was of him.
I had been told my entire life that I was like him. That my mannerisms were his, and maybe I did something he caught for what it was, because his stare found mine before his eyes flared in response.
He’d patted her a few times before releasing her back to me. He left us with an invitation for dinner, but I’d declined, and accepting this, he kissed her hand, then left.
She’d given him a riddle to solve.
She’d given me one as fucking well.
What the fuck was up with the lion? Why had she acted almost…maternal toward it? Like she had to protect it at all costs.
It wasn’t something I could solve in one sitting, though, no matter how hard I tried. It was a secret my wife hid well in her labyrinth, and one day I’d probably stumble across the answer.
It wasn’t that day.
My thoughts kept shifting from after my wife gave Luca a riddle to solve to our first moments back at the appointed villa in Florence.
It was crowded with bodies when we entered.
Scarlett stilled, reaching out to grab my hand. She hadn’t expected an audience. Neither had I.
All chatter ceased as we made our way in, but a few couldn’t hide stifled gasps. Then, one by one, as to not make it awkward, a few of the women—Rosaria and Carmen included—began to embrace her.
Out of all the years I’d known Pnina, she had never outwardly displayed her feelings. Even at Elliott’s funeral, she’d been stoic. Though she’d asked for a few minutes before the casket was closed to be alone with her son, and I had a feeling whatever transpired behind those closed doors had irrevocably altered her soul in some way.
At the sight of her daughter, tears came hard and fast, and she clasped Scarlett hard, hard enough to make her wince and gasp. Scarlett spoke quietly to her in Slovenian; it sounded like she was reassuring her mother that she was all right.
Eunice came in the room, took one look at her face, whimpered into her hands, and then walked out—the entire villa could hear her crying in the kitchen.
We’d decided not to tell her of Burgess’s deceit. She had lost him once; we couldn’t expect her to bury him again, and as a totally different man than the one he’d fooled her—all of us—into thinking he was.
Then came the moment—the moment the entire room held their breaths in a collective intake.
Everett came into the room with Mia in his arms. It’d been suggested that, until her physical bruises were healed, maybe she should hold off on seeing Mia. Scarlett had jeopardized her own life by not sending Mia away until the threat was over, and I knew she wouldn’t be okay with leaving her for that long.
Taking Mia from her mother was as futile as someone attempting to take Scarlett from me.
Scarlett moved from the group, eyeing Mia with a want so obvious it made my heart ache. My eyes burned with pressure, and I laid a hand over my heart, rubbing.
Scarlett’s voice came out soft—she spoke in Slovenian.
Mia’s entire being seemed to perk up at the sound of her mother’s voice, her eyes lifting, and then narrowing against the winter glare coming in through the windows.
Like a fledgling clings to the safety of its nest, Mia flung herself out of her grandfather’s arms, right into her mother’s. Scarlett lost her breath, but she didn’t falter in her hold.
She held Mia as tightly as Mia held onto her.
Relief and pain were both visible on Scarlett’s face, a smile lingering after Mia lifted her head for a moment to kiss Scarlett’s face where a bruise had formed. Mia rested her head on her mother’s chest, and without another word to the group, Scarlett, keeping her lips on Mia’s head, walked away to our room, leaving the door open.
Violet put a hand on my arm, squeezing.
I had no time to acknowledge anyone save my family. I closed the door to our room, finding Scarlett on the floor, on her knees, rocking Mia back and forth, the tears she couldn’t shed falling from my eyes.
* * *
The Florence countryside passed me in a blur. Scenery was not what I was after, though.
