“No, it’s okay,” I said, turning to find Salvatore sipping his coffee, watching me. “He’s not going to leave me here,” I said, the comment more a question to Salvatore.
He shook his head.
“I’ll call you once we’re home. Uh, I mean, back at his house.” Fuck. What the hell was wrong with me? “I have to go.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Sorry to have called so early, sis.”
“You’re fine. You can call me anytime, day or night, understand?”
I nodded. “Thanks. Love you.” I hadn’t said that in more than five years.
There was a pause. “Love you.”
I disconnected the call and slid the phone into my purse. “I thought you’d left me here.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you. Come here.”
I went to him.
“You okay?”
I shrugged a shoulder, dropping my gaze to shield my eyes. Why did his asking make me feel so fucking needy? Why did him taking me into his arms make me want to sob? Because that’s what it did. That’s what having his arms around me right now, like he would keep me safe forever, even after last night, that’s what they did. They made me want to weep.
The last time he’d held me like this, I’d pulled away. This time, I didn’t. I let myself melt into him. Neither of us spoke. I squeezed my eyes shut against his chest, feeling confused and hurt and vulnerable and so fucking grateful he was here. None of it made sense.
“Can we go?” I asked when I could speak without crying.
He pulled back and looked at me, his thumb wiping away some of the moisture around my eyes. “Not yet. I need to go down to breakfast, but I’ll make an excuse for you. Get packed. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”
I nodded and went to sit on the bed but stood again as soon as my ass made contact.
“Lucia?”
I looked at him.
“Does it hurt?” His face told me he knew it was a stupid question.
“What do you think?”
He studied me, his forehead furrowing. He at least had the decency to look away for a moment.
“If it means anything, I didn’t want to punish you on my father’s order.”
“But you did.”
“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry.”
“Sometimes sorry isn’t enough, Salvatore.”
He stood there a moment, his eyes on mine. “Get packed. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”
He walked out the door and left me standing there in my towel.
His absence filled the space as soon as the door closed, and I hugged my arms around my belly, feeling more alone now than ever. But I forced myself to move. To get dressed. And as much as I hated it, to go down the stairs and face Franco Benedetti head-on.
I couldn’t hide, I wouldn’t. If I did, it showed that he’d won. That he’d shamed me, and I was hiding from him, afraid of him. Well, the latter was true, but I’d be damned if I’d let that fear get the better of me.
