“Yeah,” he said, his eyes glistening. “Fun.”
Marciano jumped up from the floor, forcing Ruby to find another spot, and almost ran into Brando’s legs. Brando had to put his arms out to catch him.
“You play with us,Papà! Dabigman want it. See?” He compared his bag to Brando’s. “Same!” Though he saidsameas’ame,so excited that he’d missed thes.
Matteo and Mariano looked up, watching as Brando picked up his collection of toy soldiers from the floor—Marciano had made him drop them. He weighed them in his hands. He had told me once that he’d gotten a set for his birthday, but Luca had taken them away. No son of his would play with toys. A play solider was plastic; he’d be a real soldier someday. No real man wasted his time on games, either.
Not only could I see the struggle on Brando’s features, but I could feel it coming off him like a game of tug of war.
“Papà?” Matteo whispered.
Mariano lifted one of the men, showing him. “You can be the leader.”
There was so much—so damn much—hope in their words that my heart constricted, and I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.
“Ye—” Brando had to clear his throat again. “Yeah.”
I felt as though a war had been won.
Without letting them see, I used my sleeve to wipe my eyes. Mia stood, taking me by the hand. As sensitive to feelings as her mamma, she understood, though she never commented on it.
“We can cook, Mamma.”
“Yes,” I said, but I couldn’t move. She and I stood that way for a while, hands locked, watching our boys on the floor, lining up their men.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
I nodded, letting the tears run in a slow stream.
“Dear God,” I breathed, pulling her even closer, placing my lips against her hair. “My family is gorgeous. I adore, adore, adore, adore,adoreeach one of you.”
“Carica!” Marciano screeched.
Charge!
Brando laughed and laughed and laughed. So did his sons.
14
Scarlett
The heart in my throat had wedged itself there, unable to move, even though it pounded as hard as a jackhammer.
It wasmyheart, I dimly realized, and the natural urge to take in air was at war with the thick blockage, both fighting for dominance.
The urge to raise a hand, to clutch my throat, to somehow temper the sensation of panic took hold. But there was nothing I could do. My body lay paralyzed while my mind blasted with conscious thought, attempting to communicate with the physical. I was somehow awake within myself.
I wondered, for a moment, if this is what it felt like to die. The tearing of the soul from the body. Would I remember this horrible phenomenon while my spirit hovered over the last sight of flesh and bone?
It had never occurred to me that death would linger—allow me to feel the actual moment of separation. I had always assumed that it would be peaceful. An ethereal, floating woman—young, in her prime—looking over at the life she’d left behind. The curve of bone, the setting of flesh, the humming of warm blood before it goes cold and then dry. But no pain. And certainly not this,thisfear.
A fear strong enough to make me run from the shadows. A fear strong enough to lodge my heart in my throat.
Then…no, I wasn’t dying.
One moment. Two.
The clutches that held me prisoner in my own body released, and my blood seemed to surge. I could wiggle my fingers, my toes, feel that my heart wasn’t lodged but hammering furiously, the blood in my veins chasing the sensation.
