44. SCARLET
The next morning…
It's still not easy to digest that I basically killed my mother, no matter how long I've accused myself of that very fact.
Most of the time, I held on to the fragile hope that Dad told the truth when he said she was alive and he took her to the hospital.
Most of the time. Just never in my dreams. In my dreams, I all but pushed her down the stairs.
But Antonio is right. I have to come to peace with it.
Otherwise, it will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I need to forgive my fifteen-year-old self.
Need to see her—me— the way Antonio portrayed her.
A confused, hurting young girl. Who is to say that even if I had grabbed Mom's hand, she wouldn't have pulled me down with her, and we'd both be dead?
I need to come to terms with the fact that part of my life is over.
Over and done. I can't change it, but I can change future Scarlet.
She can become a guilt-ridden shell of herself, or she can become a strong woman at Antonio's side.
Perhaps even a mother—subconsciously my hand reaches for my stomach.
Right on cue, my stomach revolts, and I rush to the bathroom.
"Scarlet?" Antonio's concerned voice reaches me as he comes into the bathroom.
Mortified, I hold my hair back with one hand, trying to wave him off with my other as I throw up mostly bile. I hear the sound of rushing water. Then I feel Antonio's hand pulling my hair from my face and up into a ponytail, before a wet piece of cloth rubs over my forehead.
"Passerotta, what's wrong?" His face is filled with concern, but I wish he would go away and leave me to wallow in my misery—no such luck. The cool towel feels incredibly good as it washes down my forehead, cheeks, and neck.
When I think the worst is over, I take the offered washcloth and wipe my mouth before accepting a glass of water from his outstretched hand. He kneels right next to me, concern written all over his features.
"Are you sick? Do you need me to call Doc?"
I would love for him to call Doc, but I have a growing suspicion he would insist on being right by my side.
As much as I like spreading my legs for him, under no circumstances will I allow him to be in the same room while I do it for a doctor.
I can envision the blood bath that would follow, and I'm starting to like Doc.
"I'm okay… I think it's just… the stress," I say. It's not really a lie. It's possible. I don't know anything for sure yet.
"Still, I need to make sure." He pulls out his phone.
Gently, I take it from him. "I'm fine," I reassure him. "If this happens again, you can call him."
It's as if he can sniff out that I'm hiding something, but thankfully, his phone rings, and I hand it back to him. He helps me off the floor, and I brush my teeth while listening halfheartedly to his end of the conversation, at least at first. When his tone increases in urgency, I look up.
"Fuck!" Antonio shakes his head. "Let me know what I can do. We need to find whoever did this."
My heartbeat picks up a few paces. He looks… stricken. "I'll look into it. You have my word. Keep me posted."
"What happened?" I ask when he ends the call, moving to his side.
"Marcello was gunned down."
"Marcello Orsi?" I ask, since that's the only Marcello I've heard of.
He nods. "Yes, it looks like his bodyguards turned against him and gunned him down in a parking garage." He shakes his head. "He's the guy who gave me the information on your dad."
"I'm sorry. Is he…"
"He's not dead yet. Motherfucker seems to have more lives than a cat. But he was shot in the head, so…" he drifts off, rubbing his neck.
"I'm sorry," I repeat uselessly. "Do you want to go to the hospital, see him?"
An amused expression crosses his face. "We're not that close, but I'm going to put some feelers out to see who is behind this, and they'll pay."
Ah, okay. They're not close enough for a hospital visit, but they are close enough to revenge-kill whoever did this. It should have frightened me, but the slightest smile tugged at the corners of my lips. It was hard not to see the irony in this. After all, this was my world now, too.
Toughen up, little girl , you wanted to say goodbye to the good girl, well…
However close or not close Antonio is or was to Marcello, it doesn't kill his appetite. He takes me downstairs to eat breakfast in the breakfast room —I didn't know this room was part of the house. It's a beautiful bay window room with a view of the spectacular backyard I've seen from the balcony.
Dishes covered with gleaming silver cloches line the table. The scent of fresh coffee and something decadent lingers in the air. Curiously, I lift lids, first one, then another. Scrambled eggs, eggs over medium, pancakes…
"Coffee?" Antonio asked, filling a cup.
Shit. I really need to find out if I have a little jellybean inside me or not. "Uhm, I think I'll stick to orange juice. Get my stomach settled and all that."
The smile I send his way must not be very convincing, because his eyes narrow at me. "I'm fine. Really, either nerves or a stomach bug. Nothing serious. There, see, I'm eating."
I'm not very hungry, but the last lid I open holds an assortment of various breads. I grab a croissant and bite into it. "Hmm. Yummy." I exaggerate.
He grunts and pulls out a chair for me. "Sit."
"So bossy." I grin up at him.
"You don't know the half of it yet, wife," he retorts, and his lips spread into a wide smile when he says the last word.
"I love you, Mr. DeLuna."
"Not as much as I love you, Mrs. DeLuna." He kisses the top of my nose before he slides into a seat next to me, from where he helps himself to a breakfast of kings.
"Where's Gigi?" I look around.
"Sleeping, she's not much of a breakfast person."
"So, who is all this food for then?"
He points from me to him with a buttered butter knife.
"That seems like an awful waste."
He shrugs. "The guards will get their share. Trust me."
That makes me feel a little better. It also helps me refrain from trying every dish of this delicious assortment. If this is a daily occurrence, I'll have plenty of time to taste them all. Otherwise, I'll end up as round as some of these rolls. Well, I might anyway…
Alright, Scarlet. Think of something else. There is something I've actually been wondering for a while.
Antonio watches me over his buttered roll, which he has filled with jelly. "Spit it out, what's on your mind?"
"Well, I've been wondering about something," I hedge.
"No secrets between us, remember?"
Okay, I'll dive right in then; nobody has ever accused me of being diplomatic, and new Scarlet apparently is even more direct. "Why did Carlos kill your dad?"
He stops his bread on its way to his lips and studies me for a moment. Then he answers, "Because Edoardo ordered him to."
I reach over to take his hand. "I'm so sorry."
But I'm still confused. "I thought in your world, you handled things differently than in the normal world. I would have thought you would have…" I trail off, not wanting to be rude or impolite, if either of those words can even apply in the mafia.
He studies me thoughtfully for a moment longer than necessary before he wipes his lips with his napkin. "Ordered him killed?"
I nod, feeling guilty for prying, assuming, being noisy; take your pick.
I'm still holding his hand, and he squeezes mine.
"Normally, I would have, but right now, our Capo dei Capi, the boss’s boss," his voice is filled with venom, making it easy to gather that he's not a big fan of the man, "is not like any we’ve had before.
He's not an honorable man. In fact, he wants me to kill Carlos for what he's done so he can make an example out of me, have me neutralized, and put someone in my spot who is more… cooperative."
My eyes widen as the full weight of what he's telling me settles in. "The Capo dei Capi wants you dead? Why?"
He bites into his roll, chews, and I swear this man is even sexy when he eats in the middle of a life and death discussion. I wait, kind of distracted by a small piece of jelly on the edge of his lip, which I'm dying to lick off.
"That, my sweet, is the hundred-million-dollar question we're still trying to figure out."
"We?"
He puts the roll down and wipes his lips with the napkin, ruining my chance to lick the jelly, but this conversation has just turned to something a lot more serious than my carnal desires.
"The other capos and I," he confides. Holy shit. He was serious when he said no more secrets .
"Are you sure you want to know about all this? I assure you I have it handled," he says, eyeing me.
"I'm good. I love you. I want to know if there's danger and where it's coming from.
Believe it or not, I do have some experience in intrigue.
" I do. After Dad was promoted to federal judge, he received a few invites to the governor's mansion and the homes of other high-ranking politicians. Dad never dated after Mom’s death—or if he did, he kept it secret—so once I was old enough, he took me.
I never got involved in any of the intrigues, no matter how hard they tried to pull me in, but I kept my ears open.
Just to help my dad, of course, not because it was kind of… intriguing—no pun intended.
"I promised you no secrets, but if this is too much for you, passerotta, you need to tell me, and I will stop."
I shake my head. "Never. I want to share my life with you. All of it: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I want you to talk to me."
He fills me in about the meetings he had with the others and what they know.
My mind is spinning with the information. Between Edoardo, Carlos, and the Venezuelans… there is a lot.
First things first, I decide. "Something tells me you're not going to be okay with Carlos simply going to jail."
He raises his hand and ruffles it through his dark hair, mussing it in the most sexy way. "Of course not. I have arrangements for what happens when he gets to jail."
"Oh," I put the puzzle together. "Oh."
"He'll get what he deserves. Unfortunately, it won't be me doing the deed."
Someone else is going to kill Carlos in a way that it won't come back to Antonio, and he'll still have his revenge. Genius.
Inevitably, our conversation returns to his dad. "You were close?"
He refills his coffee, holding it up to me in question and waiting for my head shake before he answers, "We were. Dad, Mom, Gigi, and I. We were very close."
"I'm sorry."
"We lost Mom three years before Dad was killed," he confides. I don't hurry him on; I’ll wait for him to tell me in his own time. "She was a wonderful woman. The best mother." He looks thoughtfully at me. "Just like you will be."
This is my opportunity. "So, you want kids?"
"Dozens," he laughs. "I always wanted a brother to help me with my sister."
I laugh, "Me too. I always wanted a brother or sister. But I don't know about dozens."
He gets out of his chair, "Let's start with one, then. How about it?"
My hand trembles as I reach for his face and place my hand on his cheek. "Okay."
His smile is all I need. My heart feels like the Grinch's , as if it is expanding inside my chest, growing in size. God, I love this man. "Let's toss those pills of yours?—"
I don't let him finish, aware that I haven't taken any of them since the suspicion of little jellybean first formed in my mind, because that wouldn't be good for it, right?
It's right there; it's at the tip of my tongue to tell him that I think I might already be pregnant, but for some reason, a deep sense of righteousness settles over me.
Funny, I wasn't mad at him for reading part of my journal, but I was mad at him for snooping through my stuff.
That kind of ticks me off on a different level.
"About that." I narrow my eyes at him, "There’s still the small, illegal detail of you breaking into my apartment," I accuse.
No matter how hard I stare at him, there is not a trace of guilt on his face or in his eyes—only his trademark smugness. I feel my irritation rising.
"Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about your choices of reading materials." He grins.
"My choices of…" I sputter, still indignant as hell. "I am a curator."
"You were," he corrects me gently.
His words send my stomach plummeting, taking all irritation with it.
I realize one thing has nothing to do with the other.
Somehow, his snooping through my stuff isn't that important anymore, not compared to how my life is changing.
He's right. I am Mrs. DeLuna. I probably won't be able to keep working at the museum.
Again, my emotions roller coaster all over the place, from outrage, to slight amusement for his unapologetic audacity, to…
to… I'm looking for sadness that this part of my life is over, but strangely, I don't feel half as sad about it as I thought I would.
I love my job, I really do, but I don't like the deadlines, I don't like the limited choices of what I want to work on, and, most of all, I don’t like the sometimes mediocre work my boss is satisfied with.
Yet, I love working on a barely recognizable artifact, taking debris off it, and returning it to its former glory. There’s something about seeing it for the first time, like another person had thousands of years ago. I'm not sure how to describe it, but it's like a bridge to the past.
Antonio notices my crestfallen expression. "You can always work on your own."
I close my eyes. That's been my dream. Picking and choosing what kind of artifacts I work on?
Having my own curatorial studio is something I've wanted for a long time. If it weren’t for the pesky bills I had to pay, I would have…
I stare at Antonio. I don't have pesky bills anymore.
Still, opening my own curatorial studio costs a lot of money, more money than…
He watches the expressions on my face; his smile is broadening. "There is a large attic a few stories above us. That would make a perfect lab, studio, whate?—"
"Curatorial studio," I fill in.
"Curatorial studio," he grins. "Just tell me what you need, and it's yours."
My heart hammers wildly. "Really?"
He nods seriously. "Really. You don't ever need to work, but I want you to be happy."
Could I love this man anymore? It looks like it. I throw myself against his chest. "It would be really expensive."
He touches my nose, giving it a small tap. "Do I look like I care?"
"You know this is not why I love you, right? You don't have to?—"
"I'll have Igio and Umberto bring all your books here later today," he doesn't let me finish. "Is there anything else you need from your apartment?"
"Everything I would ever want is right here," I answer truthfully.