Chapter Forty-Eight Tyler
Chapter Forty-Eight
TYLER
AS A MAN who’s been in over two hundred firefights, I’ve gone head-to-head with some of the most lethal men on the planet.
I can even admit to being intimidated and scared a time or dozen.
But never, in my entire time as a career soldier, did I think walking into a church on Christmas Eve would be the time I would most likely shit my pants.
Wishing I drank the bottle Larissa had earlier, sadly, I find myself utterly stripped of all liquid courage and more thankful for the angel plastered to my chest. Gripping her a little more protectively as I meet the wrath-filled stares of at least three dozen made DiGiovannis currently plotting my death.
Their eyes trailing us as our collective footfalls sound on the stone of the massive church bordering the grove.
The bell chime reaching six of the twelve to the start of mass as Larissa ushers me toward the pew, where Tula, holding Alexander, waits.
With each step, I draw more deadly observations as the fish stew I ate earlier churns in my gut.
The offering of zuppa di pesce was left at my door with a sharp knock just after Larissa fled from me—again.
Knowing it’s customary for many Italians not to eat meat on Christmas Eve, I shoveled every lovingly made bite in.
Eating my feelings as I cursed my inability to leash my desire and mourned my lack of patience—patience that I used to have in abundance.
But in being anywhere near Larissa at this point, all I can do is seem to want.
Every fiber of my being screaming for me to claim her.
It’s as if her presence triggers a sort of manic need to brand, feast, and fucking possess her.
But what good could that do when I have so little to offer, while I’m still sorting and examining what pieces remain after my implosion?
The evidence of my overindulgence rumbles in protest now as I catch the collective eyes of the women glaring over Larissa’s shoulder. Distracting me from my inner loathing as they conjure up inventive ways to end my thirty-five-year run.
Two of them, I swear, flash obscene gestures as we pass.
Feeling like a complete dirtbag for using my daughter as a human shield, no matter how briefly, I shift to offer Macey to Larissa as I keep stride with her toward my condemning path.
It’s when Larissa doesn’t move to take my offering that I turn to see her lips lifting as she speaks.
“She’s the only thing keeping you alive, Marine. ”
“It’s Tyler, and that’s not funny,” I grumble, meeting Tula’s eyes to see her return gaze filled with equal mirth. “I don’t want her in harm’s way,” I insist as I’m pummeled by another set of blazing dark browns. “I’m serious, take her.”
“Don’t be an idiot. No one is going to attack you.” Her wicked smile only grows. “At least, not here.”
It’s then that I catch the lethal black eyes of the man I squared off with long months ago in the woods, his expression etched in granite as we pass.
The respectful lift of my chin in acknowledgement goes unreciprocated as Larissa stops where he stands, giving him her typical greeting with twin kisses on his jaw.
It’s only while accepting them that Daniello’s eyes bolt to mine.
Inside his stare, I see a future that doesn’t include any war-story exchanges into the late hours, like the one we had after the ice thawed the night we met. Can I blame him?
No, and I won’t, but with the blatant absence of any possible support from him, I’m left now a lone party of one.
My ink useless behind enemy lines, without a single ally in sight for the foreseeable future.
My soldier is still dormant, where I want him to remain until I know I’m strong enough to control him completely again.
After taking our designated pew, and an agonizing forty-five minutes of having my profile lasered off in a congestive slew of Hail Marys, I’m breathing no easier.
Especially when Macey and Alexander are taken from our laps by an eager Tula and Capo, whom I haven’t formally met yet.
It’s when Capo meets my eyes, his expression impeccably without tell, that I make my inquiry to Larissa. “Where are they taking them?”
“To dress,” she replies instantly as the priest continues mass without pause.
“For?”
She hesitates before blowing out a breath with her reply. “Their christening after the service.”
“Tonight?” I ask as she warily glances over at me.
“Do you have an objection?”
“To?” My eyes tick to every corner of the church.
“The ceremony.”
“There’s going to be a ceremony?”
“You aren’t this stupid. It’s a christening, jackass, so yes, there will be a ceremony. Daniello and Taylor will be godmother and godfather.”
“How very mob of you,” I snicker.
“You’re an idiot, Marine.”
“That’s Tyler, and of course, I know there’s a ceremony.
I’m just a little distracted by all the plotting of my death happening right now.
I have literally seen my own demise in the eye contact of every person here since we walked through the door.
It should please you greatly to know I’ve died a thousand ways and believe that those old ladies over there called me a cunt. ”
She rolls her eyes as a smile threatens.
“Think that’s funny, huh?” I dip beneath another scathing set of hedonistic eyes with my threat. “You know, before Alexander died, he drank with Medius of Larissa. Cause of death, suspected poisoning by wine.”
Her grin only grows as I point an accusatory finger.
“You knew that. Ah, so, that’s why you offered it up so easily.
Who’s plotting now, little mobster?” I can’t help my grin as her chest bounces.
“You want me paranoid, don’t you? Well, I’m there—so laugh it up, baby,” I whisper roughly, inhaling her fresh-cut scent as I soak in her curves.
“But know this—if I’m going down tonight by your hand, I’m going out my way. ”
She quirks a brow. “And which way would that be?”
“One guess”—I roll my eyes down her in a way unfit for church—“and it’s flesh on flesh.”
“Tyler,” she scolds on an annoyed sigh.
“Ah, so she does know my damned name.” I dip, whispering roughly against her ear. “Sounds a lot better when you chop it up with moans.”
“S-stop,” she counters, demonstrating that chop perfectly, “people are staring.”
“Only fair, they have been clocking me since I set foot at the entrance.” I press my thigh against hers, watching her draw shallow breaths. “But honestly, in that dress, what man with a pulse could keep from looking at you?”
“We’re in church,” she scolds, cheeks tinting. “Act accordingly.”
“Accordingly?” I scoff, “I’m pretty sure this is hell, and I am making peace with my place here. Pretty sure the priest is no better off, because he started sweating the second he saw you in that dress, making a mockery of Adam’s Eve.”
“Shut up,” she issues through clamped lips, her eyes sparkling with laughter she’s forcing away.
“Come on, you know damned well whoever takes confession here stabs their ears with Q-tips daily in an attempt to keep their sanity.”
She presses both lips together as I nudge her.
“Tell me, little mobster, am I to endure a similar hell every day this holiday season? What is your plan for me tomorrow? Am I to be strung up and quartered? Or are we going straight to nailing my balls to a two-by-four after the presents are unwrapped?”
Silence, and then …
“Come on, we’re more creative than that.”
“Ah, so you’ll start with the blowtorch then?”
Raucous laughter bursts from her, the sound of it music to my ears.
Startled by her own outburst, she clamps a palm over her mouth in horror just as every single head in the hostile mob congregation turns our way.
The looks being gifted far from representing anything close to wishes of peace on earth and goodwill toward men.
Face flushed that I got the best of her, Larissa joins them just after, lasering off my profile with her hostile glare as my own lips finally lift.
* * *
Alexander proves himself not one for ceremony, belting his greatest hits as the priest with paper-thin skin gently pours water over the top of his head.
Daniello holding him above the ancient porcelain basin as he finishes his prayer.
“Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo. Amen.” In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
“Amen,” I whisper, drawing my eyes from my son, who’s been wrapped in a pure white dress, to meet Larissa’s eyes as she repeats the same sentiment.
Macey, whose hair is still damp, sleeps on her shoulder.
The sight of them fuels the warmth emanating through me.
A warmth which I begrudgingly admit started as soon as the ceremony began.
The gift of being here enough to fuel it, not to mention the fact that I’ve felt so many unexpected emotions during the sacred ritual.
Not so much spiritual, but the opposite of what I thought I would with the way this night started while in hostile company.
It’s that warmth that encompasses me now as I lock eyes with the creature who set fire to my expectations of tonight and, more so, of my life path.
More than once. A connection I keep wholly now in hopes of exploring every flame, if she’ll allow it.
Those still sitting in the pews—an audience cut down by a third after mass—keep eyes on my wailing son as Capo and Tula observe, perched next to Daniello.
Beside him, his wife, Taylor. A stunning redhead who took her role tonight just as seriously, though she seemed thoroughly amused by mine and Larissa’s dynamic when introduced.
Taylor’s focus drifting between us more than once since the christening began.
Giving me some indication that she might be an unlikely ally.
By the looks of her, she was once just as much an outsider as me.
Taylor also stems from Southern roots, per Daniello’s admission the night we collided.
But as I stare on at the woman whose strength and resilience brought me here, it’s my hope to hear their story not from the source, but from her lips.
And to hear the answers to the other questions that are continually forming in my mind as I appreciate my miracle, who, in some respects, is still a mystery to me.
The knowledge burning in my chest that, from afar and for so long, she watched over me to the point she respected and began to love me.
Becoming so invested that she admittedly shaped herself to mirror me, and risked her life to save mine.
After being a watcher over half my life, the idea that another took me under their care, guarded me, has my throat stinging.
The burn increasing at the idea that her former fate, her limited window view, will become mine if I lose her.
That thought weighing on my heart heavily, even as the view of her warms it.
“Questi bambini sono ora gli figli di Dio, rinati nell’acqua e nello Spirito. Che il Signore li custodisca e li guidi sempre.” These children are now God’s children, reborn in water and Spirit. May the Lord keep and guide them always.
A swell rolls through my chest as I glimpse some of the guarded emotion behind her stare, lifting my chin in encouragement to ease the apprehension I see there. Just after realizing her possible upset is that I might have issue with the ceremony.
The ache that glimpse causes making my decision to tell her I’ll take part in anything that will aid in the protection of our children.
Especially if it takes away any of her anxiety.
Even if my personal beliefs remain shaky and unresolved.
Unsure if they ever will be resolved. A conversation that I want to have.
A conversation I have had in the past with only one other.
A discussion I’m finding myself anxious to get back to.
But only with the gorgeous creature holding our daughter.
And fuck, how I want to be able to freely talk to her like that, and about so much more.
Especially now, knowing who she is and what she’s capable of.
Knowing I can’t force it, knowing that I can’t at all act on the dozen things I’m desperate to do and starting to feel the urge to say.
But she deserves better than what I’ve given her, so much more, and it’s as I watch her that I resign myself fully to find the patience I once had.
Larissa deserves to see and know the man I was proud of being, and so every day I’ll search for him.
To find a way to align with him again. If only to garner one-tenth of the trust I had back.
For what she’s suffered and sacrificed for me, for our children, I will myself to regain that patience.
But as I gaze on at her, utterly possessed by the need to close the space, I see only the absence of trust, along with the heavily concealed fear of allowing any faith back in. In seeing that’s the crux of us, when she forcefully breaks our gaze, I flit my focus to the man on the cross behind her.
Head cast down, crowned by thorns of mockery, gashes bleeding from his sides for the same reason.
As the story goes, he suffered publicly and unbearably for days while absorbing the sins of every man who’s ever lived and ever will.
Sins including my own. Whether that story is truth or fable, a feat of that magnitude remains impossible for any human mind to ever comprehend.
Hypocritical as it may be, for a few brief seconds, I identify with his struggle, having guarded and eaten the sins of a few in comparison.
But in recognizing that, for the first time in my life, I identify with my wife’s and Larissa’s God.
Wondering, if I ever do manage to summon the courage to ask, if he would relieve me of my own ingested burdens.
Entertaining the notion for the second time that he could be my God, too.
As we collectively leave the church, I decide I want him to be.
For the people who have loved me, the man they knew and now mourn.
It’s then that I decide to actively search for some semblance of the elusive faith required, this time, for myself.