It wasn’t a question.
He came further in, closer, closer, and then opened his arms. My forehead came down to his bare chest, my arms tucked to my sides. He totally encompassed me. My safe place for my own ephemeral eternity.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“Reggimi,” I whispered back. “Reggimi.Non lasciarmi mai andare, Brando.”Hold me. Never let me go.
He held me as close as possible, and I wanted to melt into him, let him carry me wherever he went.
“You hurt me when you don’t come to me. I always know when you’re gone—my heart is too far from where it should be.”
I looked up at him then, seeing not the refection of a broken woman, but strength reflected in his eyes.
“You always come for me.”
He said nothing, holding me even closer, almost to the point that I couldn’t breathe. Then his grip slackened, only a bit, and he kissed the top of my head.
“How long were you watching?” I asked.
“Long enough,” he said. “You are so beautiful, Scarlett. I rarely catch you off guard. No guard. Only you. It does my heart good to watch you that way.”
“It is rare.” I sighed, feeling some of the pressure dissipate in his presence.
“Yeah.” I could feel his grin against my head. “After that night in the snow, it was a learning experience to stay in the shadows, watching over you. Without words, I knew you better than I knew myself. Words can fuck things up, hide the real. Character is who we are, what we do, and that comes across with actions and time.
“After I came to you, that night along the train tracks, I lost the element of being able to hide in the shadows. I couldn’t hide one fucking thing from you after that. You recognized the feeling for what it was—me, and I haven’t been able to hide from you since.”
“The night that guy plowed me over and you picked me up.”
“The second time you saved my life.”
We let those two statements linger for a moment, staring up at each other through the fog and candlelit darkness. Seeing him in this atmosphere was seeing him. He belonged to the night, but the light adored him. It clung to him in an almost eerie glow that always certified my claims.
He was, and had always been, my misguided angel.
From the soft light’s fierce burn, the fiery wicks seemed to carve his most prominent features from its heat, but the shadows still attempted to cloak and dagger him, and the effect was like moonlight over dark water.
Not even Michelangelo or Giotto could have captured him properly. No, no mere mortal could. To replicate his beauty, his essence, almost seemed like a cruel joke. A picture is worth a thousand words, but when you are standing in front of it, with every sense at work, you realize a picture could never do the masterpiece justice. Some people are meant to be felt.
And some people have a heart that could never be tamed enough to be claimed.
My husband was one of those people.
He shouldn’t belong to anyone, like a river or a mountain or even a breathtaking sunset behind the two, or a word, or the air, but he did.
Me.
He belonged tome.
At times, I wondered if I was wicked, as though I had somehow tricked him into it. Astrega, as Ettore had called me. Casting magic to get him to fall in love with me. But I’d done nothing but danced, which he called me being truthful.
His truth.
Perhaps that was the magic. My truth spoke to his doubts.
I’d rather die by the vicious truth than be coddled by a sweet lie.
This logic should have put to rest my concerns, but it didn’t. We continued to stare, our eyes connected, as though the conversation in my head had gone through his too, and the truth rested in the depths of his soul.
