Chapter Fifty-Eight Tyler
Chapter Fifty-Eight
TYLER
STUFFED FROM A feast of lentil soup with cotechino, I kick back and gaze upon our sleeping son, his lashes flitting against his cheeks as he dreams, chuckling as I recall his dramatic drop-off earlier today.
Fresh out of the shower, Larissa had pounded on my door just as I wrapped a towel around my waist. Alexander’s shrill cries from the other side hastening my steps to open it.
Laughter bubbling up instantly as Larissa hoisted him toward me, demanding a pass-off.
Her exasperation evident as she presented him like a newborn lion—one who was impressively demonstrating his roar.
“Take your future king, immediately,” she demands, dripping sarcasm.
Laughter bursting through, I instantly relieve her of our son, who is, in her defense, raising absolute hell. Bending with his wails when I take him, as she hastily dumps his diaper bag at my feet, and I spout more defense. “Trust me, baby. Our son’s just getting his lungs ready to roar orders.”
When she turns on her heels and stalks across the courtyard, unimpressed, I can’t help but call after her.
“Did you know Alexander tamed a wild horse at twelve? A beast that no grown man had balls enough to get near! Mark my words, that’s going to be our boy!
” She doesn’t so much as slow or break stride as I shoulder the bag, nuzzling him and kissing his damp forehead.
“Looks like we’re both in the doghouse today. ”
Fire blazing nearby, Christmas tree glittering a few feet away, I can’t help but wish we were together now in the home she created.
The intimacy we’ve been slowly building since Christmas increasing my want for more.
More of her, more of our talks, more of the feeling that continues to bounce between us.
Though I intend to keep my promise to wait as long as it takes, assuming that she even chooses me, the more I want to will time forward.
But it’s in staring at my son that I decide to enjoy the wait—to savor the journey.
It’s my selfish ache to be near her as the new year approaches that prompts me to make more effort.
My phone is buzzing in my hand as I draw it from my pocket to compose a text—the two of us having finally exchanged numbers a few days ago.
When I check it, I see it’s another text from Sean.
Sean: Happy New Year, brother. I love you.
I scroll down to read his last few.
Sean: Heard what happened. We’re on it. Rest easy knowing we’ve got your back. Always.
Sean: Merry Christmas. I hope it’s a good one for you, brother.
Sean: Baily asked about her Uncle Tyler today. She misses you. We all do.
Farther down, his texts just after our fallout:
Sean: Zach just stopped by King’s. He’s missing you, brother, in case you need to hear it. I’m so fucking sorry. I regret it every day.
Sean: Happy birthday, you old bastard. Thirty-five, huh? When did we get so fucking old?
Sean: Please, brother, answer one call. Please.
The next thread from Cecelia, who texts nearly as much. Messages that Tobias knows I’m more likely to check and that I’m positive he contributes to—though freezing him out entirely hasn’t exactly been possible. Her most recent text sent only a few hours ago.
CEE: I proudly use my ink for you every day. Know that and that I’ve got your back, Tyler. Always. I love you. Please, please call.
That one has my eyes burning as I click my screen to black, knowing the rest of the texts from Peter, Jeremy, and Russell are similar.
Though they timidly didn’t start texting until a week or two after I got clipped, their messages are growing more frequent as time passes, more frantic.
The childish grudge I feel is becoming less so, though my time and want to be here supersedes any need to be back in the know, to be needed back in the club I helped to create.
Chatter swells in the courtyard outside as life resumes at the villa, which I only hope continues to ease Larissa’s anxiety.
A fear inside her that keeps my hatred stoked for the motherfucker who put it there.
Though Antony’s been marked mentally since before the night we crossed paths at the White House, my focus currently resides on the beauty he instilled a new fear in.
And as I eye the clock to see more time ticking toward the new year, I start to compose a text of hope for it. For us.
Happy New Year, little mobster. I promise we’ll make the next one better. I lov
A familiar hesitance, one I haven’t felt in ages, fills me as I—Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Delete. Hold.
The feeling bittersweet, but keeping me hopeful as I second-guess sending the sentiment by text, having not spoken that declaration since the first time for fear of scaring her.
As I stare down at the screen, weighing on what to write, a barked order sounds outside my villa window, stilling my fingers.
The following shrill command sending my clanging heart into a hopeful rhythm as she draws near. The next has me swinging the door open just as she’s about to knock. Dressed to murder, she steals the breath from my lungs as I greet her. “Hey, I was just texting you.”
Head turned, her eyes remain fixed on a crowd of men gathered in the courtyard, all of whom stare back at her, looking like they’ve had the fear of God put into them. Her murderous gaze softening as she swivels her head back to me.
“What’s going on—”
She cuts my inquiry off, jerking me inside and shutting the door. Her attention is divided as she grips my hand tightly and tugs me forward, stalking toward the opposite door, leading to the main house.
“Where’s the fire?” I chuckle as she practically drags me before opening it. On the other side awaits the night nurse, Fantina, with a sleeping Macey in tow.
“You wanted a date tonight, right?” she prompts, less question, more order, as she hastily ushers Fantina in. “Well, let’s go.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” Her eyes dart to the courtyard door and back to me. “Right now.”
“I mean, you could’ve given a gal more notice, just let me brush my hair and teeth and grab my boots—”
“You don’t need them, and we don’t have time.”
“The hell?” I draw my brows in confusion. “At least let me put on my—”
“There are more bottles in my villa fridge,” she calls back to Fantina as she drags me, in my socks, through the door.
“So, this is it, huh? My execution is tonight?” I sigh. “Well, at least you’re giving me one hell of a view to cling to as I go. You look fucking beautiful, baby.”
“Thank you,” she utters absently, dragging me down the hall, taking long, fast strides as I struggle to keep my arm in its socket.
“Seriously, what’s the rush?”
“The food is getting cold,” she issues, peering around the corner and through the large kitchen window, which grants a full view of the bustling courtyard, before we enter. I eye the open cabinets. Every shelf is half-bare.
“Why does it look like the kitchen’s been robbed?” I ask.
“We cooked today,” she states more distracted in a non-answer. “Come on.”
Just past the pantry, she hauls me through a larger, thick oak door, the steps leading down to the cellar lit by wax candles stuffed into wine bottles.
Loud Italian opera blasts off the walls, the acoustics of the space amplifying the volume tenfold.
As we descend, row upon row of barrels appear, taking up most of the central space.
The outer walls are lined with endless racks of dusty wine bottles.
The lights overhead are dim but ambient, giving off a soft yellow glow.
The air is damp and cool, the stone surrounding us rich with history.
As we take a ridiculous number of cement steps, I catch sight of more flickering candles spaced throughout.
A lone giant space heater runs next to a two-seater dining table.
Two place settings carefully laid out. Next to it sits a small table stocked with every imaginable kind of Italian fare.
The sight of the amount of food waiting sends my stuffed gut churning, but it’s the amount of detail and care with which she put this together that has me stilling at the first landing.
“Wow, little mobster,” I say on exhale, “you really went all out.”
“It’s nothing.” Her cheeks redden, stoking more hope. “Come, sit,” she urges, jerking my arm. “Let’s eat.”
Too moved by her gesture to admit I’m full, I prepare myself for misery when her angry ushering sends my socked feet shuffling and losing balance before I crash against the wall.
Smacking my head on the stone before landing, hard, on my ass.
My hand limp in hers as she looks back expectantly, eyes widening.
“It seems I’m in need of a nurse, again,” I chuckle as her features twist in horror.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” she whispers apologetically, kneeling as she places her palm over the one I have cradling the back of my head. “Are you okay?”
“I mean …” I dip my eyes to the V at her neckline, her mouthwatering cleavage inches from my lips. “Things could be worse.”
She rolls her eyes, her new necklace shimmering in my periphery as I take note of it.
“You’ve been pretty blurry for the last ten minutes. I just realized you’re wearing it,” I whisper reverently, running my finger over my promise. “So—”
“Yep.” She pops the p, bursting my hope bubble as she helps me to stand. It’s when I feel a few things cracking back into place in a scary way that I gently pull my hand from hers.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but in an effort to keep what’s left of my arm functional I’m going to have to ask you to point from here on out.”
“Shut up,” she chuckles, guiding me toward the table before shoving me into a chair hard enough that it squeaks across the stone.