The question made me bristle. I hadn’t thought of being out of the woods, not since Nemours had gone on a rampage. Most of the time a question or thought would be the catalyst for my feelings—the more anxious I became, the more likely whatever was on my mind was going to happen.
I felt something, but not much. I refused to lie, so I told him the truth.
“No,” I whispered. “We’re not.”
“As bad as this?”
“As of right now?” I shook my head. “No. But I’m…confused about my feelings.”
His shoulders visibly slumped, though his hands around the steering wheel grew even more taut.
“I think—” I bit my lip, trying hard not to say it. It felt wrong, but then again, he deserved it. My hand crept up the door, hovering over the handle. He always opened and closed the door for me. This time, I’d beat him to it. “You’re leaving. Leaving mehere. I’m not going to stay here for long. That’s for sure. But I think it should stay that way—the separation.”
Before he could respond, I flung the door open and rushed toward the house. He caught up with me in a few long strides, taking my arm in his hand. Just as he yanked me to a stop, our children rushed out of the house. All but Mia.
He relaxed some but didn’t loosen his hold.
“Are you staying with us, Mamma?” Mariano said.
“I am,” I said. “But only for a short time. Then we’ll go back home.”
“Why this?” Marciano said, lifting his arms for me to pick him up.
All the children had been traumatized by what had transpired with Nemours. The last thing Brando and I wanted to do was pull them into anything that belonged to us. Brando glanced at me and swooped Marciano up. I was holding the bag in my hands tight to my chest.
“Daddy has some business to take care of,” Brando said in Italian, stroking back Marciano’s sweat-drenched, jet-black hair. “I will not be long.”
Matteo took a step forward. “May I come?” he said in soft Italian.
While the other children mostly clung to me, Matteo had clung to Brando with something close to a visceral need. He had nightmares at night of me leaving him, but come morning, only his father would do.
Something powerful had passed between them when I was out. It was clear to see their bond had taken on a stronger shape.
That, and both Matteo and Mia had known something I wished they never would. Even though they had never been told, they knew. If I would have died, Brando would have left them. Which explained Matteo’s anxious face when his father mentioned leaving.
“If mamma says it’s all right—” Brando nodded “—you can come.”
Matteo looked up at me with big, dark, pleading eyes. His father to the marrow. I dallied for a moment. Almost afraid to give in.
Where was he going? And if he went back to Italy, would it be to finish business? Business in terms of vengeance.
Luca had introduced his sons early on to the violence their family hid behind a rich façade. When they were older, neither gore nor death would shock them. Then again, they all had consciences, depending on what the circumstance was.
“Not now,” Brando whispered under his breath. “He’s too young. I’d never.”
I looked up to find him staring at me.
“All right.” I nodded, leaning down to kiss Matteo’s cheek, but I didn’t have to bend too low. He was almost as tall as me. “You can go. As long aspapàbrings you back before school starts.”
Brando nodded, neither confirming nor denying any specific amount of time. He only had agreed. My anxiety rose, and I had to bite my lip to keep from snapping.
A look of immense triumph crossed Matteo’s face, which eased me some. For a young boy, still my baby, my agreeing had erased all the anxiety he had been holding on to.
“I will have Grammy Eunice pack my things!”
“No,” Brando said, turning his oldest son’s head toward the impatient Chevy trembling in the driveway. “We’ll get you some things once we arrive.”
“I will say goodbye to my sister and cousins then!”
