Chapter 14 Valentino
I went and put my foot in my mouth. Why did I have to mention that cazzo, of all people?
A sigh escapes me as I stand from the bench and reach out to Naomi. But she’s moving away from me, arms wrapped around her middle, as if warding herself against me.
I would never hurt her—she has to know this.
“Naomi,” I coax gently.
“You…” she sputters as she takes another step back. “You always do this. You’re always badmouthing my father.”
I stifle the groan that wants to come out. That bastardo is forever to remain a shadow between us. “You don’t know him like I do.”
I want to hit myself when the words come out. Why did I have to throw oil on the fire, and now, of all times? I finally have her with me, in my home. We were opening up to each other. I’ve never confessed to anyone why I play this tune. I say it’s good practice to whoever even hears me making this music on a piano.
“I…I want to go home!”
Her voice catches on the last word, like her throat is clogged with tears. Suddenly, she seems so terribly young and I have to ask myself what I’m doing with her. Despite growing up next door to each other, she’s not from my world. She’s not an ingenue from our borgata that has been hand-picked to make my bride, so she’ll bear me a son and a spare, like Zia Vivi hinted at during the ball. She’s… I’m not sure what my feelings are for her, but she means something to me. Enough to make me want to see where this is going, where this can go.
Tale padre, tale figlio . Indeed. Was this what my dad felt like when he saw my mother, the daughter of a rival family, and knew he wanted something with her?
I blink out of my thoughts when Naomi reaches the doorway of the study and stumbles into the circular hall that connects most of the rooms on this floor. She pauses in her step, possibly to ascertain where the front door could be.
I can’t let her leave. Not like this.
I stalk to her and grab her arm gently. “You’ll catch your death like this.”
She blinks up at me, then looks down, seeming to realize she’s wearing my shirt and nothing else.
When she looks back up at me, it’s with fire in her eyes.
“Give me your coat,” she asks.
I narrow my eyes at her. This is how she wants to play it?
This is how she wants to play me ?
I’m not some toy she can tinker with then throw away when the presence of our family’s conflicts casts a shadow on the perfect little illusory world she’s built for herself.
“I’ll expect it back,” I say. “Delivered by you. Directly to me.”
“F-fine,” she bites out.
My nostrils flare with anger. It’s best this—whatever this is between us; call it a lapse, a momentary blip in the matrix—ends now. Before any of us gets hurt. We barely tried, and it’s already falling apart. I can scratch out a line through the idea of being with Naomi Smith and move on.
“This way.” I give her a chin nod towards the right, then start in the direction of the front door. Once there, I pull my black coat from the stand and hand it to her. “Bring it back before the end of the day.”
She stays silent for long seconds, not reaching out for the coat, not doing anything. I thrust it at her once more.
“You’re an asshole,” she says softly as she looks up at me with wide eyes. They are shiny with tears.
My jaw tenses. “I’m not the one asking to leave.”
“And you’re just going to let me?” Her voice sounds incredulous.
I shrug. “I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to.”
She blinks, and her lower lip starts to tremble.
“I don’t want to go,” she mumbles.
If she’d been defiant, or if this had sounded like a sulky child pouting, I would’ve stayed stone. But I could hear her heart hanging in those words, there for me to grab.
I throw the coat back onto the rack and reach for her.
“Then stay.” I pull her to me and wrap her in my arms. She comes willingly, and when she hugs me like she wants to melt into my body, I can’t help it. The words leave me. “I don’t want you to go, either.”
We stay in this embrace for long moments. It feels right, to hold her to me, to have her much smaller body burrowing into me, seeking warmth and shelter.
When she shivers, I snap back to my senses. The foyer isn’t the warmest room in this dwelling.
“Come,” I tell her.
Still tucked to me, I take us back to my study where I make her sit on the couch before going to add a log to the fire burning in the chimney at the back. I pull her another coffee which I thrust into her hands. She takes it and drinks from the cup absently.
Dread gathers in my gut. I know what’s coming, and I have to face it. I did take the pin out of a grenade when we were last here.
Naomi finishes her coffee and fiddles with the glass cup on its tiny saucer. When her green gaze lifts up and finds me, I know the time has come.
“What did you mean about my father?” she asks.
I heave out a sigh and come sit in the armchair to her left. I hover on the edge of the seat; this isn’t a conversation I can relax for.
After a deep breath, I delve in. “What do you know about your parents’ marriage, Naomi?”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Like how they met. How long they were together before…”
“Before she died.”
I nod.
She shrugs. “I never really thought about it. I was five when she passed.”
“Your father never told you?”
A veil of sadness creeps onto her face. “He doesn’t like talking about her. That’s why the governor’s ball is so special to me. It’s one thing I know she loved, the only time he talks about her freely.”
Apprehension is pooling like acid in me now. Naomi knows nothing, it seems. And why would she? Joel Smith only totes around the story of how his beloved Aoife loved the masquerade ball when there’s an audience or a member of the press around.
“She was twenty-three when you were born,” I start, then continue when Naomi gives me a nod. “Your parents had been married for five years already by then.”
I can see her doing the math in her head.
“She was eighteen when they got married?”
I nod. “He was thirty.”
“It’s an age gap, but what’s the problem there?”
I take a breath. “She was fifteen when he first pursued her.”
“Oh.” She went still and stared straight ahead, not talking for almost a minute. I could tell this was news to her. “Ummm, if it was love…” Her voice dwindles with each word.
“It wasn’t love, Naomi.”
“I mean, I knew he married for money but I always hoped he loved her, too.”
I make myself continue. “He set his sights on her, seduced her, then kept reeling her to him. It was almost like Stockholm Syndrome. She lost her mind to him, so much so that her parents had to marry her off when she came of legal age since she was going mad without him.”
“You’re lying.” Her voice held no strength, however. “You don’t know this. You can’t know this!”
“He bragged about it, to my father and their other friend, Antonio. They used to be close, but they fell out with him over what he did to your mother.”
That’s not all he did, but that’s all I’m going to tell her today. The whole truth is much uglier than this.
“He can’t…” she mutters. “It’s not…” Sobs erupt as she folds onto herself, the tears trickling down her cheeks.
I can’t stand it, much less that I upset her. In a flash, I’m on the couch and pulling her to me, cradling her in my lap as I gather her to my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter in her hair. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“But I asked,” she mumbles, before the sobs take her.
Yes, she asked. The truth always tends to hurt.
It breaks my heart to see her hurting, but a part of me is also relieved this part of our history is out. For Naomi to know the truth, it means something. I want her eyes opened to the world. I want her to be an empowered woman who steps into her own and can hold her ground. And for the two of us to have anything more than something superficial, she needs to open her eyes to what we are dealing with between our families.
Yet, she’s hurting, and more than anything, this breaks me.
It’s hard to watch her suffering this way.
What’s happening to me?