Chapter 31
ROMI
I’ve stared at the blank canvas all evening and into the early hours of the morning, feeling more inspired since coming back from the farmhouse.
I mix colors and try to edge my brush on the surface, but then retract it.
I’ve stepped back and re-evaluated it numerous times.
Every time I approach it, I look at the previous pieces I’d attempted, the ones with golds and oranges blazing through the black tarnishing them.
“Fuck.” I pick up Borris, holding him close to my chest and petting him as I glance at the boxes filled with Lorraine’s stuff.
From the moment we returned, Dante has been gone, and it’s been hours since I’ve heard from him. I suppose it comes with the job.
My mother sent me a detailed text message regarding a restraining order against Meredith, which offers a small sense of relief.
Seeing the farmhouse unraveled a part of me I’d forgotten.
I've remembered that life goes on, no matter what or who is taken from it. Strangely, I felt at ease, taking in the house and land where I spent the first six years of my life, grateful to Dante for taking me, when I’d for so long forgotten it.
I’ve been circling ideas about how I can honor Lorraine’s memory as well as move forward, and the first step is making sure I have this collection ready, and that her mother doesn’t get a fucking dime of Lorraine's money.
I was so frozen in place when she screamed those vile things at me at the funeral, my own guilt and shame fueling me. But no more. I won’t allow her to come for my family or me, or exploit her daughter any further for her own gain.
I hear the front door open, and look at my phone. It’s four in the morning. Curiously, I walk down the stairs, and the moment I spot him placing his helmet on the corner of the kitchen counter, my jaw drops.
“Is that blood?” I demand as he removes his leather jacket awkwardly, revealing a deep red spreading from the shoulder of his shirt.
“You stayed up for me?”
“No, you fool, I was working. And don’t avoid my question.”
“Well, that’s progress,” he says as he tries to pull me in for a hug, but I shove at him.
“Don’t come back bleeding as if it’s the most mundane thing in the world.”
“Be careful, sweetheart, you almost sound like you care.”
I place Borris down and look for the first aid kit. “Take your shirt off. What happened?”
“I got shot,” he says, as if it’s nothing but a scratch.
“Again?” I wince, and he chuckles as he comes to stand behind me and then pulls me in, shirtless and bleeding.
“Well, it wouldn’t be again if a certain little someone hadn’t shot me in the leg in the first place. For what it’s worth, you should see the other guy. He’s tied to a chair, unconscious. Anyway, I came back to change clothes before going out again.”
“I thought you had somewhere else to stay,” I chastise over my shoulder.
He smirks. “Can’t blame a man for using a bullet wound to get a little attention.”
I’m so used to showing men indifference, but he hangs off me, as if soaking in the sympathy. But when I come face-to-face with the wound on his shoulder, I blanch. It looks deep.
“It’s fine, Cattivella. I don’t need your kit. I have my own in my room. The bullet just grazed me. To be honest, you were a better shot than the asshole anyway.” He laughs as he presses a kiss to my cheek before he goes to walk away, but I catch his other arm.
“Sit down and tell me where your kit is.”
His smile stretches as he goes to sit on the sofa, and I walk toward his room. “Don’t you dare sit on that fucking sofa. On the barstool. Now.”
I hear him chuckling behind me, but he does as he’s told. “It’s in the closet, on the top shelf.”
It’s easy to spot since it’s one of the few items left behind. I’d been in such a flurry packing his shit into a bag last time that random clothing awkwardly hangs or has dropped to the floor. Yet here he is again, as if he were never gone.
“Who said you were welcome back here anyway?” I make a point to say as I walk out. “We never discussed that.”
“But I’m bleeding.” He pouts.
“That’s because you’re reckless, and that doesn’t mean you just walk in here like you own the place.”
“I missed you, too. How was your day? You’ve been upstairs working on your collection?”
I want to really whack him sometimes. It’s a miracle I only ever shot him once. A pang of guilt floods me at the thought.
“I’ve been thinking about… potentially publishing Lorraine’s books and incorporating them into my collection.
” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since Dante, and I discussed Lorraine’s death, and I felt that weight in my chest lift.
I want her to always be in this world somehow.
“What do you need?” Dante asks seriously. I look up at him as I place the kit on the counter.
“Are you in the business of publishing?” I ask rhetorically.
“I’m in the business of getting things done. If you want to do this, then it’ll take us no time at all. We can have it organized for your collection. You focus on the paintings, and I can work on this.”
My jaw drops at the thought of him doing something so…
sweet. Endearing. It’s been a long time since I believed in a man showing up when it counts, even though my stepfather has always done that.
But since my father's death, I just thought men were all unreliable in some way.
It was mostly the reason I treated them so coolly and only used them to get me off.
But when Dante speaks or offers help, I believe him.
And that terrifies me.
I look back at his wound.
“I want the money from any sales to go to depression awareness and women who need help but can’t afford it themselves.
” I think of Lorraine and the struggles she fought with her depression.
I think back to the time when she accidentally overdosed.
She admitted only a year later that it was a wake-up call because all the thoughts she had leading up to that evening swarmed her, and she no longer wanted to be alive. It was a wake-up call for both of us.
Lorraine had me, and although she went to regular therapy, it never seemed to be enough, but she was adamant she didn’t need medication, which I always found interesting, considering she found other ways to self-medicate.
When I think about putting her work out into the world to help support such a cause, I know without a doubt Lorraine would approve. Maybe not to publish her work, but to realize that in her name, she could help so many other women who struggled as she had.
“It won’t be an issue. I’ll make some calls,” he says.
I look at him, still struggling with the idea of depending on him. Because if I do, it feels like I’m finally submitting in some way. As if I’m giving him my power when I’ve always thrived on doing everything myself. “I wasn’t asking for your help.”
“You never ask for help. That’s part of your charm.” He’s smiling as he watches me work around him, but when I open the kit, I’m surprised that the first thing I see is a photo of two young teens and a little girl.
I pull out the photo, and he’s watching me, unfazed by my discovery.
“That’s Milia, in the middle. The ridiculously cute one is me,” he says.
The weight of it feels heavy in my hand.
The fact that he carries around a photo like this surely means he cares about the past, even when he pretends it doesn’t affect him.
That he, too, had a family and has experienced loss. It shapes us all differently.
“And is this Lorenzo?” I ask carefully, well aware of their strangled relationship.
“The troll in the background? Yeah, it is.”
I glare at him and decide to put the photo away. Whenever his brother is mentioned, blades come out, and it saddens me, considering what he’s told me, Lorenzo is his only family left.
I look through the kit.
“Do you know what you’re doing, Cattivella?” he asks.
“I know how to clean a few scrapes,” I tell him, irritated, as I begin to disinfect the wound, and he barely flinches when I know it burns like a bitch. He simply watches me with that shit-eating grin.
“I don’t know how to stitch, though,” I admit.
He chuckles. “I can do that. Or I can teach you since you’ll have a lifetime ahead of patching me up.”
My gaze flicks to his, and I’m somewhat irritated by his presumption.
“Look, just because you’re head over heels, it doesn’t mean I feel the same.”
I might’ve let the monster into my heart, but I need to protect myself, especially while I focus on getting myself back on my feet.
“It’s part of your appeal, Romi Lutton. I’ll have a lifetime of winning you over, knowing that you’ll claw at me every step of the way,” he says in a sing-song way.
He’s a fucking psycho, a still-bleeding one at that.
Once I’ve wiped away most of the blood, he grabs my hand and takes over. To be honest, I have no interest in learning how to sew skin together. But I watch him, grossed out and curious, as he begins to work on himself.
“I suppose being a doctor really has its perks,” I say as I pick up Borris again and sit across from Dante.
“One year away from being a surgeon, sweetheart. So, I’m not only ridiculously handsome but also incredibly smart.”
“My definition of smart doesn’t involve a man who gets shot twice within forty-eight hours.”
“Touché,” he says with a smile. I try to hide my own, not wanting to give in to his charm. From this angle, beneath the tattoos, I can see the scars.
Since we’re momentarily placing down our weapons and guards, I boldly ask, “What happened between you and your father? Your family?”
He looks away from his handiwork, and those dark-brown eyes seem to be twinkling like always when I ask any question about him.
There’s so much I don’t know about this intelligent, frightening man. I know his body well, but not what motivates him, and that is a terrifying thought.
He goes back to stitching.