Chapter 35 Trilby #2
I may loathe violence, I may hate everything Papa’s involvement with the Di Santos has stood for over the years, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a thing or two.
“At what cost?”
“I don’t know yet. But it won’t be long before the cartel discovers their associates are dead. Then we’ll find out.”
His words settle on me like acid rain. I know what this means. It means war. And Cristiano will believe a war is his doing. He won’t want to return to Vegas now and leave the rest of the family to pick up the pieces.
He sighs. “I swear, this couldn’t have happened any other way. The second I heard their conversation and figured out what they were planning, I had to stop it from going any further. I had to kill my brother.”
Then he leans in, his long lashes fanning my hot skin. “But let me be clear, Trilby. That wasn’t why I killed my brother.” He moves closer, so I’m certain no one else in the room can hear, then he cups my chin and lifts my gaze to his. “I killed him for you.”
I do my best to stare into his orbit, but the vision moves in and out of focus, my peripheral blurring into something I no longer recognize.
I close my eyes and feel his forehead resting against mine.
“I know you hate this,” he whispers. “I know you hate the violence, the death—all of it. But I know you, Trilby. I see you. Think back to the person you were before your mama died.”
I try to shake my head, but he reaches up and holds me still.
“Remember how you’d run into the sea in all weather? You’d dive off the rocks. You’d camp in the forest without telling anyone where you were. You had no problem visiting the shooting range and being a better shot than guys twice your age.”
His words spin around images that fly at me—slowly at first, and then thick and fast. Images that depict me throwing myself headfirst into freezing-cold waves, sleeping alone under the stars, firing bullets with absolute precision into targets designed for men and women much older and more experienced than I was.
“You were wild once. Untethered. Unashamedly courageous.”
I nod. I remember.
Then something jolts me out of the memories.
How the fuck does Cristiano know who I once was?
I jerk away from him, and his expression shifts. His eyes flit from side to side as if anticipating my reaction.
“How do you know?”
“Know what?”
“How do you know I used to do those things?”
“I grew up around here.”
“But I don’t remember you.” I feel almost ashamed to admit that, because even as kids, the Di Santos were practically royalty on Long Island. But I was only ten when he left.
“Maybe not.” He rubs his chin, drawing my attention to a layer of stubble. “But I remember you.”
My brain scrambles around for a memory, a fragment. “Were we . . . friends?”
“Not exactly.”
“Cristiano.” I drop my head wearily. “Now is not the time for vague answers. Can I please just have a straight one?”
“We met once. You were about eight years old. You’d found a dead bird, and you were trying to nurse it back to life.” He wipes the smile from his face with a thumb. “I sat with you while you operated on it with sticks and grass, then you sang it a lullaby.”
I blink. “Did we talk?”
“Kinda. I was your consultant, really. You asked me for my professional medical opinion on a couple of matters. I gave it. But you went ahead and did your own thing anyway. I was just amazed at how you were able to lose yourself in that tale. I envied your ability to transcend our lives and embody this character and this purpose you’d created in your head. ” He bites the inside of his cheek.
“So then what happened?”
He glances over his shoulder. Papa, Allegra, and Sera are speaking with a doctor. Then he drops his gaze to the floor.
“Your mama saw us talking, and she pulled you away.”
“Why?” I say, breathless.
“She didn’t want you talking to a Di Santo I expect.”
I narrow my eyes and try to remember.
“You weren’t happy about it. You were beside yourself at having to leave the bird behind. I promised to look after it, and I did.”
“You did?” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Yeah, as well as anyone can look after a feathered corpse. I found a box in my grandfather’s boat shed, and I gave it a proper burial service.”
I can’t help my smile. “Really?”
“I’d just helped you perform extremely intense keyhole surgery under highly pressurized conditions—I was pretty invested by that point.”
His expression is so earnest it squeezes my heart, then my smile fades.
“I’m so sorry about Mama . . .”
“Don’t be.” He wraps his hands around mine. “She was trying to protect you. And she did—for a long, long time. I’m grateful to her.”
“But you . . .” I rub my eyes. “You hadn’t done anything wrong.” I gaze at him, my eyelids heavy. I’ve just taken in a mountain of information in a small space of time. A lot of death and a lot of violence.
“You need to rest,” he says before I can suggest it myself. “We can talk more later.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead he stands, turns to my family, and announces they’re all to leave me alone for a few hours.
He places my hand back onto the bedsheets and trails his fingers along the top. “Rest, Trilby. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
I don’t appreciate being told what to do, but right now, I’ll gladly surrender to his instructions. I let my eyelids flutter closed and listen to the slow, methodical beeps of the heart monitor as I drift into a dreamless sleep.