Chapter 42 A Sunday Dinner to Remember
A Sunday Dinner to Remember
Aria Amora
The Sicilian sun bloomed high in the azure sky.
The temperature was already warm at sunrise, and I could hear the sea singing to the shore.
By evening, the entire world would be a shade of orange I was sure could only be found on the island.
It was like a great hand was squeezing what was left of the citrus fruit, mixing it with oozing honey, and then allowing it to flow over the land, competing with Mount Etna for who would enrich the soil more.
It was Sunday, and per our tradition since we were brought to the olive tree grove, we prepped during the week with meals we all felt like cooking.
Sunday morning, we all headed to the small church sitting atop the hill, then we all walked back together, enjoying an Italian feast at the table—we never knew when the men would arrive, so we always had food prepared, even if it wasn’t as wide a spread as it was on Sundays.
Scarlett and I walked next to each other, both of us narrowing our eyes at the hard glare glinting off the stained-glass windows.
The church was otherwise dim and smelled like the olives growing on the hundreds of trees.
It was like the oil had seeped into the wood, and the scent lingered in the air.
Or maybe the church had been built from the wood of fallen olive trees.
From the open door, I could see miles of vast land, the hills still bare from the harsh winter, but here and there, wildflowers were beginning to rise from their cold slumber and stretch their petals toward the warmth of the sun and the day.
We all took our seats and found our peace.
On the way out, I set a hand on Scarlett’s arm as we reached the exit of the church. She stopped and glanced at me.
“The words inside of my head are getting poetic,” I whispered. “I feel it stirring inside of me…a story.”
I’d told her how I was paranoid of writing something new, because I didn’t want to know the outcome of this war, just like I was sure she didn’t want to know all the things she felt at times.
The struggle was clear on her face—to feel or not to feel.
I was sure in one way, to feel things no one else could was an advantage, a blessing, especially when it came down to saving those she loved.
At other times…it probably felt like a curse.
She said it was a particularly hard struggle when the person she felt something from was an enemy, because even though this person meant them harm, she could almost always understand why they were doing what they were doing.
Some people could hide from her, though.
They buried their intentions so deep, she felt only God could know.
A serious look overtook her face, and in a quick move, she set her finger against her lips and swiped, as if she was just running the finger over them. I knew what she’d meant, though.
Keep this feeling a secret between us.
She knew the price of what this “gift” could cost me. The truth in it. It would come at me, and I knew sooner or later it would become so hard to carry around, I’d have to sit and write or almost crumble to its power.
Writing fiction was a big part of my truth—or finding it. It was a gift, but with lingering effects, especially when the truth was going to possibly hurt or change the course of our future.
Suddenly, I had an unexplained, urgent need to keep the book I wrote about my love with my husband close to my chest. Keep it over my heart like a shield, and hold on tightly to it. So tight, it would be hard to take a breath without feeling the spine press into my breastbone.
My head whipped around at a loud bang! in the church. Maggie Beautiful had been sitting next to Juliette, staring at the stained-glass window, allowing the colors to fall upon her face. She must’ve stood and hit her foot on the kneeler, and Juliette had to catch her.
Maggie Beautiful giggled quietly. “Sorry, Juliette Stunning, I didn’t see that there.”
Scarlett squeezed my hand and went to help Maggie Beautiful out of the pew.
She was shaking her head and saying that she didn’t see it there.
Scarlett assured her it was all right; it happened because it wasn’t put up.
Then she took one of her hands, and I took the other.
We guided her out of the pew, and we all kept our hands together as we made it out of the dimness and into the bright sunshine.
My eyes automatically narrowed at the glare.
Scarlett squeezed my hand again, and in the next second, she was off like a shot.
Her slim frame took the downward sloping hills like they were nothing but a level surface. Wind whipped against her body, fluttering her dress, sending her veil flying, and her hair invaded her face. It didn’t slow her down one bit. Dust rose from her flats, rising behind her in small brown clouds.
“No one could ever get her moving like my son,” Maggie Beautiful breathed out.
She squeezed my hand before she took off, just as fast as Scarlett.
Maybe even faster. The hills were doing her favors as gravity worked to keep her moving.
I was almost willing to bet, once they made it down the hill, they’d be arriving at the same time.
A breathless feeling rose up in me, as effervescent as the bubbles I’d been feeling swooshing around in the pit of my stomach.
It made it to my heart, and my knuckles were already in place, holding my dress up some.
Right as Carmen, Juliette, and Mari came up behind me, I took off like a shot myself.
I was going so fast, I wasn’t sure whether my feet were going to stay on track or I’d roll down the hill.
Either way, I was getting there as fast as I could.
At the bottom of the hill, men who reminded me of sailors were making their way from the sea. Maybe it was my imagination, but in the wind, I could scent it in the air—the hold of a ship, salt from the water, fish from dinners.
Amid it all, the strongest of all, my husband’s scent that was unlike any other to me.
His cologne reached me before he did. I collapsed into his strong arms, holding him as tightly as I would’ve held the book that contained our true love story.
I was kissing him all over the face, running my hands over his body at the same time.
When I came to a bandage on his arm, I pulled away and narrowed my eyes at him.
“I am your hero, ah?”
I slapped his chest, attempting to shout at him in English and Italian. I wasn’t sure if I was saying everything correctly in Italian, but a grin came to his face. I wiped it off when I went to storm away from him. He caught me by the arm.
“You are upset with me, my wife.”
“You’re stating the obvious, Rocco. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Even though his demeanor hardened, I could tell he still wanted to grin.
“You grin at me—” I raised my hand “—and I will beat your ass, here and now. In front of all these other people, who seem to be having the same conversation.” The women around us were shouting at the men, looking them over.
Maggie Beautiful had her hand raised, and with a grin on his face, Luca lifted her off her feet and flung her over his shoulder, heading toward the villa, where I was sure, like everyone else, he was about to get to the romance they craved as much as they did the ruthless.
Rocco took my hand in a firm hold and set it over his heart. “You beat my ass, here and now, and my heart will not be able to take it.” He leaned in close, as brave as any soldier, and whispered in my ear, “My cock will not be able to take it either.”
I pulled away from him, my eyes narrowed, full of tears. I flung my arms around his neck, lifting on my toes, and my mouth automatically went to their true north.
His.
I could’ve been levitating when our mouths met, our souls connected, and he lifted me off my feet, carrying me toward the villa, about to feed the craving for romance in his blood.
We were barely inside of the room before his foot shut the door.
He didn’t bother locking it. No one was coming to knock.
My hands undressed him, as his undressed me, and over my womb, his palm stilled, and he said how much he loved and missed us both in Italian.
He was steady on his feet, but his bones trembled.
I felt it as he rested his hand on my skin.
We began to kiss slower, moving slower, as we both got in bed—our movements, touches, caresses pure magic.
We moved this way, not paying attention to time or its mechanics.
My husband kissed me from head to toe, and it was at that moment that I realized I’d lost my church veil too. As his tongue slid up my leg to my thigh, and I parted for him, a slight noise left my throat when his tongue came between and caressed my most sensitive flesh.
His head was moving in tempo to his strokes.
My fingers slipped into his hair, messing it, and when my entire body came to his, I cried out, and while my orgasm was still ringing in my ears, he entered me in a stroke that made me cry out even louder.
He growled low in his throat at the noise, then he stilled, his eyes closed, before he looked into mine and began to truly move.
He was being careful but stretching me to my limits.
“I missed this,” I whispered, closing my eyes to the sensation.
My hand touched his face, and he kissed my palm.
“I missed this so much. I missed you so much. I’m not me without you.
I don’t know where I’ve gone, but wherever it is, it’s always with you.
If you don’t take care of yourself, you don’t take care of me.
” I touched his arm. “So reckless. I even hate the word.”
“You are here with me, my wife,” he spoke in Italian, placing my palm he had kissed against his heart. “You are here. No one can touch you. Not even if they steal my heart.”