11. Mia
11
MIA
B rando’s knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel, every muscle in his forearms taut with contained fury. The car's interior is charged with his brooding silence, an unspoken storm brewing beneath his hard-set jaw.
I watch him from the passenger seat, my body rigid with anticipation. His dark hair is a dishevelled mess after hours of fluffing his hands through it. Exhaustion dots the contours of his face, his blue eyes electric in the space between us. The air around us feels suffocating, all consuming, and each breath I take is laced with tension. His rage builds slowly, like the calm before the storm, as we continue to drive through the city streets in silence. I’ve tried several times to break into his rigid control; sometimes he lets go and shows me a little of the Brando he used to be. But just as easily, he pulls back and shuts down, as though lost in a distant memory that holds him ransom.
“Brando,” my voice breaks the stillness, grasping at anything that could extinguish the tension in the car.
His gaze remains fixed on the road ahead, but I see the subtle clench of his jaw relax ever so slightly when I say his name. It is the only acknowledgment I need, the only sign that he is listening, despite the turmoil that seems to consume him from within.
I exhale quietly, the sound almost lost amidst the hum of the engine and the faint whisper of tires on asphalt. My heart clenches for my sisters, the fear for their safety a constant weight on my chest. They’ve been gone for days, and we’ve gone to their usual haunt’s multiple times daily, but still, there’s no sign of them. None of their friends have heard from them, and even checking on them at university reveals that they haven’t been in attendance.
“Brando,” I begin again, my voice trailing off into the void between us.
“Speak, Mia.” His words are soft, but the undercurrent of steel is unmistakable.
I glance at my phone again, as though expecting it to blink with an incoming message. But there’s no message, no hope for salvation as we continue to circle through the city.
“Nothing. Never mind,” I murmur, tucking the phone away, out of sight but not out of my mind.
“Tell me,” he insists, his calm demeanor fraying at the edges.
I meet his gaze, searching for the right lie. But in those denim blue eyes that refuse to hold my gaze for any reasonable amount of time, I find an ocean deep with concern and danger.
“How long are you going to stay angry at me?” I hesitate; it’s been a very long time since I allowed myself to show any vulnerability in front of anyone. “ Why are you so angry at me?”
He tsks and shakes his head, as though I wouldn’t understand. The silence that lingers between us speaks volumes as the car slices through the city's underbelly, a sleek shadow flitting between pools of electric light. My gaze is drawn to the window, where the glare of neon signs and streetlamps streak and smudge into abstract patterns against the glass. The city's pulse thrums in my ears, a dissonant symphony that mirrors the chaos within me. “We should...” I begin, but the words cling painfully to my throat.
“Head home.” His voice is a steadying force as he finishes my sentence. When we were children, we’d been well versed in anticipating each other’s words. It was funny now to think that we still had the ability to do so, without even trying. Two parts of a whole, that even after years apart, could so easily contemplate the others’ mood.
I note the tendons in his hands, standing out like cords as they grip the wheel. He’s a man wrought from the same darkness we’re hurtling toward—a darkness that threatens to unravel me as a sense of loss overwhelms me.
“You were never meant for him,” he murmurs, voicing the dread that coils tight in my belly. The edge in Brando's words is sharp enough to slice through my resolve. I realize that we’re still stuck in that place in time when we were fifteen, the elevated level of enmity between Frank and Brando still alive and well after all this time.
I turn back to the window, watching the cityscape distort with speed. Each blurred light feels like a step closer to the edge of nowhere. Yet there is no turning back. My sisters' faces flicker in my mind—innocent, vulnerable, lost—and something within me clicks into place, a final piece of armor sliding over my heart. For all their faults, they’re still my sisters, and I would do anything to protect them with the same fierceness I’ve smothered them with since they were toddlers.
“Agreed.” My single word response has his hands tightening against the wheel. The car veers around a corner, throwing me unexpectantly against the leather seat. The city continues its relentless parade outside, indifferent to the silent battle raging within the confines of the vehicle.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my nails digging crescents into my palms as I realize we’re heading in the opposite direction of the penthouse.
Brando shoots me a glance, eyes glinting with an unspoken vow. “A little detour.”
We drive on in silence, through the streets and back toward the city. But we don’t quite make it there before Brando takes a sharp right and pulls through a gate in a residential area surrounded by acreage. He smiles to the man at the gate as we’re let in and I look around at the little slice of heaven situated in the midst of the urban sprawl surrounding us. Acres upon acres of land surround us as we drive up a winding driveway, until Brando stops the car and comes to my side. He opens the door and ushers me out, even as I look up in surprise at the beautiful homes dotted on the green landscape.
“Where are we?” I ask him.
“Home,” he says, as he starts walking. The word is a breath on the air, an exhalation of peace. It feels like home coming from his lips.
It’s obvious he expects me to follow him, but I don’t move. He stops and turns, fixing his sullen eyes on me.
“Where are we?” I ask him again, anxiety rising within me.
“My brother’s home. We’re going to have dinner with my family.”
I quirk my eyebrows and look down at my casual attire of jeans and a black shirt.
“I don’t think I’m dressed for dinner,” I argue, and he probably knows I’m clawing at excuses. Brando shrugs and starts to walk again, but halts when he hears me call his name.
“I can’t do this,” I tell him.
“We have to eat,” he growls, before he turns back to the house, leaving no room for argument.
“I told you; I’m not dressed.” Anxiety lances through me. We’re at his family home. His family is here. This is so out of left field and I’m not ready to meet them. I’ll probably never be ready.
Brando smirks and shoots me a cocky grin. “You’re dressed, alright.” He clucks his tongue. “No-one here has a judgmental bone in their body,” and I know his words are meant to comfort me, but famous last words, right?
“I don’t even know your family. Did you tell them I’m coming?”
“Well, you have nothing to worry about, because Mommy Dearest is buried right beneath your very feet.” My eyes act of their own volition and drop to the ground in horror. I jump back at the thought that I’m standing on another human being’s grave. When I look back up at his face, I know from his expression that he’s not exaggerating.
I feel the blood drain from my face, even as the front door of the house closest to us is flung open and a shard of light illuminates us. An older woman stands at the door, holding it open, as though expecting us.
My eyes skim down my clothes to make sure I’m at least halfway decent. It’s not ideal, but jeans at dinner it is.
Brando’s family home, or his older brother’s home as he explains, is palatial. I step through the front door, and the world outside vanishes. It's as though the house itself has swallowed me up—gently, but firmly. The air smells new, like fresh wood and polished stone, warm and inviting. This is so easily a home, not a house.
I don’t know how long I stand there, absorbing the sheer scale of everything, from the soaring ceilings to the light that spills from every crevice into the entryway. A wide hallway stretches out before us, a vast, open expanse of white marble floors that gleam like glass underfoot.
I don’t even hear the conversation that’s unfolding between Brando and Juliana, who he introduced as the family housekeeper. I take a few steps behind him, my eyes sweeping across the grand foyer. It’s wide, too wide for any normal house, and it’s beautiful. We enter through a hallway until we’re standing in a substantial dining room where dinner is being served.
A deathly hush falls upon the room as all eyes fall on me and I feel myself receding into my shell as curious eyes dissect me. Brando is saying something, and I think I hear my name, but I’m stunned into silence as my frozen mask fixes on the ground in front of me.
It’s the beautiful woman with the large brown eyes and large belly that speaks first. She rises from her place at the head of the table and waddles a few steps toward me, greeting me with an embrace that catches me off guard and a smile that beguiles.
“So happy to meet you, Mia. I’m Allegra.”
I watch as she turns toward the table and looks at the other family members sitting there, pursing her lips as she gives them a warning glare and introduces them one by one.
“My husband, Scar.” She beams at him proudly, like he is the sun and the stars and the moon, and it’s not hard to see how in love they are.
“Welcome, Mia,” Scar greets me, joining his wife as she shoots his younger brothers a look that has them wiping the smirks off their faces.
“And these errant children are Lucky and Rafi,” Brando mutters from beside me.
I’m led to a chair in between Brando and his sister-in-law, and the conversations start up again just as easily as they were halted, a comfortable peace settling over the table.
There’s enough scrutiny in the room to fill the Spanish Inquisition, and I try my hardest not to meet anyone’s stares head on as I nibble at my food. I can understand the curiosity, but I wonder if it comes from a place of mistrust or genuine curiosity.
“You’re not eating,” Brando growls beside me, low enough so only I can hear. “Juliana will think you didn’t like her food and she’ll be very offended.”
All eyes are on me again as everyone watches the interaction between me and Brando, possibly trying to gauge the relationship between us. I so want to stand and put everyone out of their misery and tell them that we’re nothing more than once upon a time friends and he now possibly hates my guts. Although, I don’t even know why he’s helping me and my sisters if he hates me so much.
Brando clears his throat as he looks up and addresses the table.
“Is no-one hungry tonight?” he asks, as he stares at his brothers watching us.
It’s Allegra who saves the night, mumbling around a mouthful of food. “Not me,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m very hungry.”
All eyes turn towards her. She’s polished off her plate and she’s reaching for her husband’s, even as Scar happily prepares her a third plate.