Page 72 of The Strength Of A Woman

I unbutton my jacket and relax in my seat as we move slowly toward our destination.

Giorgio may try to do something, but it won’t fare well.Varela might try to do something, too, if Giorgio informs him of what just happened.

And then, he’ll find out, like everybody else, what his future bride has been to the men in her family’s house.

She’s clearly not a virgin, too, which would rank high in Varela’s view.He won’t live long enough to learn the truth about that.

Smiling to myself, I revel in the view of the town.

“Things all right, Boss?” Cosimo asks.

I shift my eyes to him, still smiling.

“They’ve never been better. How are things with you? You’re making strides with that woman.”

Cheeks flushed, he looks out the window for a second.

“She’s a good woman,” he says.

“Just like Leilani.”

He turns to me, and our eyes lock briefly.

“They are just the victims of a bad environment,” I say, tilting my head back, running my fingers through my hair, and stretching my legs.

“Nasty bunch of people,” I mutter to myself. “Had no idea things were that bad.” I finally look at him. “Luckily, I found a way out of this story.”

He has a thoughtful look on his face.

“What will happen to her?”

“I can’t tell you now. If I do, I’ll need to kill you,” I joke.

He grins, entertained.

“So, things will be all right,” he says.

“More than all right,” I murmur, shifting my eyes to the view.

Before long, we reach our destination.

Moments later, I climb out, take the stairs up, and remove my jacket.

I’m still walking, holding it in one hand as I start rolling up a sleeve. I’m done with one and starting the other after shifting my jacket from one hand to the other when I reach the floor, where she and I live.

The doors to the dining room are open, and there she is, sitting at the table, wearing one of those embroidered nightgowns that must’ve been the rage two centuries ago.

Her eyes are tilted down, her focus on her food.

On a white tablecloth, a porcelain plate and cup sit. Next to it, silverware.

A small vase with a few poppies adds color to this image that looks like an antique painting.

Her hair flows down her back, over her shoulders, framing her angelic face.

She doesn’t see me––perhaps she hasn’t even heard me––as she pops small bits of food into her mouth.

I freeze in the doorway and take her in.