I cleared my throat but said nothing.
Scarlett moved behind me. Her hands came over my shoulders, her front pressed against my back, her head against my neck. Cool tears slipped down my shoulders, and I expected steam to waft from the heat of my skin.
“Tell—”
“No.” She kissed the back of my neck. “You didn’t hurt me. You were trying to save me.”
“I must’ve—” I cleared my throat again, not even able to say the wordshurt you. “You’re crying.”
“It’s not what you think. I’m—” She sniffed. “I’m relieved.” Then she began to sob, holding me as tightly as Mia was. Almost choking me. “You’re back. My husband. He’s—you’re—” She couldn’t even finish.
“Yeah,” I said, attempting to keep both of them close to me. “Prepare to get dressed. We’re going, Ballerina Girl.”
“W-where?”
“Home. Back to Tuscany. For now.”
36
Brando
Hewas born on my birthday, August 11th, three days before he was due.
He came much faster than his sister.
Unlike with his sister, though, I had no problem taking him in my arms and looking him straight in the eye.
I amyourfather, and you aremyson.
Matteo Leone Fausti.
My son.
A head full of jet-black hair, skin closer to the color of mine, eyes just as dark.
Eyes so much like mine that it was like looking into a mirror, reflections of time passed and time to come wavering across his face. The possibilities life would offer him were fathomless in their dark depths, already keeping them secret from the rest of the world.
What he’d see. What he’d do.
He came without warning, before his time, and his mamma struggled to have him. His shoulders were broad, his arms already swollen with the promise of natural born muscles, and his legs strong and long.
Fingers and toes too—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
I counted them over and over, in awe at how much they resembled the shape of mine already.
He had a set of balls any father would be proud of.
The doctor, having seen this, had assured both of us before he’d even taken a breath that there was no chance of this one being a girl.
“Like father, like son,” Scarlett had said, face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks, after she allowed the entire room to see how much she’d fallen in love with her son.
“You are so beautiful,” she murmured to him, bringing him even closer, inhaling his hair, his skin, his essence into her lungs. It was just one of the tender sentiments she’d spoken to him since she held him.
The first was, “I’ve known you all my life, and here you are.” Then she’d looked at me and whispered, “Like father, like son. He’s all you,mio angelo.” She was so proud.
“Yeah, you really think so?” I’d said, even though I knew he damn well was.
Scarlett nodded.“Proof that God listens to my prayers.”
