“Let her in,” Scarlett said. “You have to. Or there is no hope for a future. You have room for two. Life goes on here. She lives on through it—they all do. She lives on through you, Livio.”
His back visibly came down, wound so tightly that his shoulders seemed to be up to his ears. Cerise gave a wave before he urged her to move.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Scarlett’s hands came up and then dropped in a helpless gesture.
“You can’t change people, baby. Or the world. You can only adjust your own.”
“No, but if this…peculiar sense I have can help—it makes me feel like I have it for a reason, Brando.”
“He still loves Santina, and she’s dead. There’s no help for that.”
“He always will,” she whispered. “He loves Cerise too. He’s—”
“Struggling with loving one without feeling guilt for the other.”
She turned to me, burying her face in my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her. She sighed, releasing some tension, and her body melted into mine.
I’d never be able to sit in the same room with the man and feel like the choice of whether to kill him wasn’t an easy one—easier than ordering from a dinner menu. In my own way, I felt it would be a mercy. But my wife wanted to help him, even after what he’d done.
Some would argue a man and woman could love the same, or maybe in this situation, forgive the same. It wasn’t a point this man agreed on.
Scarlett had her way. I had mine. Cleary there was a difference, and not only in anatomy.
“You want to go back outside?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I want to be alone with you. How about we write?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Works for me.”
The book we were cowriting was still in its early stages because of the surreal life we lived. Paroled fathers, threats, deaths, and the birth of babies. But we’d decided to make it a priority, since we’d agreed to do it. A Ballerina Princess and her Italian Criminal Prince? It seemed to make a lot of sense to the people wanting it, even if the only reason I did it was to be involved in something that would forever live on with her.
Both of us changed into comfortable clothes before we settled in the office—the desk was large enough for her to sit across from me while we worked together. It was hard for me sometimes because I liked to stare at her as she got lost in the process. Then occasionally she’d touch my foot with her own under the table. One thing led to another and then we’d have to start again.
As she was deep in thought, and I typed at my own computer, I said, “Tell me how many children,Scarlatta.”
A second. Two. Three. Four. The sound of her keyboard singing ceased, and I felt her stare rest on me. “As easy as asking about the weather,” she murmured to herself. “You caught that in the kitchen?”
“I catch everything.”
“That was a rhetorical question, by the way. I know you do.”
“Tell me how many,Scarlatta.”
“Children?”
I stopped typing, giving her my undivided attention. “You’re answering questions with questions.”
She held one finger up.
“One more.”
She shook her head. Then she held up another.
“Two more.” Sweat was starting to break out on my skin—two more of them meant four—two more than there were of us.
She held up another finger.
“Three more.”
