Page 23 of Jude

I gave them a short breakdown of what happened with Luisa and the airport incident.

Sofia: I’m OK and safe. A man, a musician, and his stepdad, a sheriff, got me away from Luisa and Dario. I’m in their home now. I’ll explain why later and text you when I can.

The group was a lifeline linking me to the women who knew my heart.

We maintained a close connection that spanned continents, despite our vast distances.

My cousin Anya texted from Calabria between her high school lesson plans, while Marisa sent voice notes during her grueling nursing shifts in Madrid.

I met Marisa as an actress in the Italian soap opera, La Tempesta dell’Amore.

She and I played sisters on the show, and we became close, remaining friends after we walked away from the studio following its takeover by the mafia.

Tina chimed in after her exhausting factory stints in Bucharest, and Esperanza posted freezing emojis from Norway, of all places, where she worked as an au pair.

We all kept a vigilant eye on each other from afar, refusing to let any of us slip into isolation.

I hit send and got a flurry of replies, hearts and thumbs-ups, which made me smile and took away a little of the butterflies dancing in a frenzy in my stomach.

With some relief, I took a quick shower and dressed in my only other change of clothes: jeans, a tee, and a jacket.

I crept downstairs, keen not to be seen as unsociable.

I found Kian downstairs, also showered and changed, deep in conversation with some of the aunts and uncles.

He jerked his chin and grinned at me in welcome as I slipped past him.

I found Maggie in the kitchen and offered to help.

‘I can’t sit around doing nothing,’ I told her.

She smiled at me. ‘I like you, you’re well brought up.’

She soon got me plating platters and filling glasses as neighbors and friends traipsed in and out to wish her happy birthday.

While the house overflowed with cousins, aunts, and neighbors, her son, however, was a silent, brooding shadow lurking alone at the edge of the veranda.

He seemed to like it that way.

As the night progressed, Jude sat apart from everyone, giving off a masculine, brooding gravitas that ratcheted my heart rate each time I glanced his way.

He hunched over an iron patio table, his tall physique dwarfing the recliner, his sinewy fingers hooked around a mug of black coffee.

He was on his phone, eyes down at the screen, with an earpiece in his ear.

His eyes flicked across our way on occasion, but his expression remained solemn, his raw, tattooed masculinity warning me he was not a man to be messed with.

‘He’s just exhausted, love,’ Maggie whispered to me at the sink, noticing my eyes darting toward him at one point. ‘He’s been on a grueling stadium tour for two months straight. He plays guitar until his fingers bleed sometimes, that one. He’s got severe jet lag and fatigue because he gives everything to the band, but often forgets to be kind to himself.’

At the dinner table, the chatter proved her right.

The family talked about Jude’s career with pride, waxing on about his multi-platinum records, arena stages in London and Paris, and screaming crowds of eighty thousand people.

Jude scarcely spoke, as he listened with a closed-off expression, arms crossed over his chest, one boot resting on his knee.

He didn’t touch the beer the uncles offered him; he just drank a glass of lemon water.

‘For his throat,’ Maggie explained.