“Went home with her grandmother. Charlotte’s in town.” Even with her eyes covered by the sunglasses, I could tell she rolled her eyes. The only time she allowed herself such a lax response. “Mia wanted to see her cousins and talk more about Maja.Matipromised to show her more pictures.”
I studied her face for a moment. All her beautiful lines, the sharp edges, the soft touches that made her—her.
“What?” she whispered.
I shrugged, converting to Italian. “Your beauty shocks me sometimes. I know my wife is beautiful, but it’s a powerful thing when it hits me square in the chest. Harder than the first time.”
Her face flushed and she smiled a little, standing closer to me.
“Where are my sons?” she asked, but her question belied her quickness. She knew where they were because her eyes were on them before she even asked. The crowd of kids running back and forth reflected in her glasses. She lifted them after a minute or two, green eyes as feline as a watching cat’s, making a displeased noise. “Call them in, Brando. I don’t like where this is headed.”
Her hand went to the cross around her neck, fiddling with it, anxious.
The game had gotten rougher, I realized, after I turned away from her.
The Stones were tagging to mean it, and in retribution, the Faustis were returning the favor. Angelo helped Matteo up after the older Stone boy had shoved Matteo in the back, making him bite the dirt.
A cool hand seized my arm, nails close to digging into my skin. “Brando,” my wife said again, this time her voice held a warning. But I refused to call them in. If I did, what message would that send? That they would run from the Stones because of their last name? Fuck that.
Marciano went to fly by, to join the game, but Scarlett stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back with force.
“No,” she said to him. “Go play with your cousin.”
“Ah!” He shook his head, but glancing up at me, did as he was told.
The crowd of parents at the park had turned in the direction of the “game,” watching with wary expressions. A few of the men standing around cleared their throats, starting to feel uncomfortable with the situation.
I stood in my spot and the sheriff did in his, watching as our sons worked this out.
Older Stone shoved Matteo again, and Matteo shoved him back. Older Stone started to mouth off to Matteo, and something he said made Matteo pause, his eyes narrowing. His face turned hard. His cheeks had an underlying redness below the tan, from the running, and the heat flared even hotter.
Nostrils flaring, he rolled his shoulders.
There went his tell.
Before I could get to him, he hit the Older Stone boy with enough force to knock him off balance. He had been keeping his temper in check, making sure his younger brother didn’t get bullied, but whatever the Older Stone had said to him had set him off. He was strong. The echo of his father rattled in his bones, and one day, he’d fill my shoes.
A few kids started to cheer, but the Stones and Faustis were locked in playground battle.
Parents were standing, gaping, some pointing. Romeo followed me, followed by Mitch. Scarlett kept step, and I knew if she got to the sheriff first, she’d go insane. And if the sheriff put his hands on my wife…there would be no help for him or me.
Because the situation was as clear as this: The sheriff had been closer than any of us to the kids, and he had his hands on my son. He yanked him from the ground, and then held him by the ear, which in turn left Matteo vulnerable.
Older Son used this to his advantage and sucker-punched Matteo in the stomach. As hard as he had been hit, he refused to double over, standing taller, though I could tell he was hurt. Two tears, one from each eye, that only came from the sting of the blow ran down his overheated cheeks.
Closer, the sheriff’s voice made it to me, reprimanding his son for hitting, but still not releasingmyson from his fucking hold.
He released him soon enough when my fist connected with his nose.
I’d never laid hands on the sheriff. Over the years, he had abused his power by taking out on me what my father had done to him and his family. In all fairness, some situations had required his authority, but most of the others required none. Still, he had found reason to use force with me. Not once had I ever given in to the temptation to strike back.
The bastard son of a murderer, I had deserved it.Not worth the air the world wasted on my lungs. It had been a mistake to create someone like me. And I took the punishment like a man. A man deserving of the abuse—because my blood,my blood,had caused his family hurt.
My son? The sheriff would never do to my son what had been done to me.
No man would ever put hands on my son, especially when he was innocent.
Was it shrieking? Or my name? One or the other called me forward, to a place where I could recognize the brutality of the heat, the immense density of the humidity, the smell of sweat and earth, the copper tang of blood—then came the pounding of my heart, the blood rushing in my ears, and the feel of my fist holding tight to the sheriff’s shirt, about to land him a blow that would kill him.
