ELEVEN
Nastasya
B enito was crazy if he thought meeting out the front of the house was the best idea. I eye the two guards standing at attention on either side of the entrance when I step out of our family car. Papa stands to my right beside the SUV’s fender, hands clutching the lapels of his jacket. You’d think it would hurt him physically to be even the slightest bit chivalrous with how he avoids extending me any manners, such as a hand to steady me.
I don’t know how Mama put up with his shit for so long.
Probably half the reason for her mental health issues.
We arrived ten minutes early—no doubt some bullshit idea of my father’s to catch the De Santis’ off guard. Still, it’s five minutes later than I promised Benito. A part of me wonders if he’s already quit on me, assuming I wanted only to embarrass him by making him wait like a fool.
“I trust you rid yourself of any tears you felt necessary to shed today.” Papa smiles as Gennaro appears at the top of the steps.
“I’m fine.” Thank you for asking. Apparently, it’s unsightly to have a woman grieve the recent loss of her friend. Gee. Wish somebody had told me that during my years of education at a private girls’ school.
I wait while Papa gestures for his men to keep their distance and follow him up the grand steps to the De Santis residence for the second time in as many days. One could be forgiven for thinking these visits have become a habit. I opted to wear something more my style but still respectable tonight. Paired with camel Palazzo pants, I chose a white chiffon tank, and my hair pulled into a loose plait that falls down my back. Papa chastised me for showing too much skin; I reminded him they’re only shoulders.
The desperate women he throws money over each Monday at the gentleman’s club wear less.
“Arseni,” Gennaro De Santis greets as we reach the top. “I hope tonight is more pleasing for all of us.” His warm irises light up with promise; the lines around his eyes prove he finds reason to smile often.
“It would be pleasing if you had names to give me,” Papa bites back, breezing past his host to leave us redundant in his wake.
I sigh and offer Gennaro a soft smile.
To my surprise, he extends his arm and takes me by the elbow, gently guiding me into the house. “And how are you today, mio caro ?” Soft eyes find mine briefly.
I look away, tilting my chin down and focusing on the fleur de Lis pattern of the textured foyer wallpaper. “Better.”
He makes a grumbly noise low in the back of his throat. “We’ll find the person responsible.” The don’s gaze flicks to where my father waits impatiently at the foot of the sweeping staircase. “I make this vow to you, Nastasya.”
My stomach does a complete backflip, feet rooted to the spot as the head of the De Santis family crosses the floor to my rude father. It didn’t escape me the importance of Gennaro making the promise to me and not Papa.
“Come.” Gennaro sweeps his arm toward the formal lounge at the rear of the house—just as I’d hoped. “Let us drink before we sit for dinner. Brigida is eager to talk with you, Nastasya.”
I take a deep breath and recite the words I’d practiced in my head all afternoon. “If I may, I’d like to step outside a moment.” I press my fingers to the side of my head. “The lights play havoc with my headache, I’m afraid.”
“Of course.” Gennaro nods.
Papa eyes me with discontent. “We only just arrived.”
“Have you had her looked over?” The don directs the question to my father as though I’m a prize racehorse.
“Our family doctor treated her.” Papa scowls. “I’m sure it will pass.”
I’m thankful for the distraction as I skim past the door to the sitting room and toward the exit I’m familiar with. The glass door leads out onto the rear patio, heavy thanks to the reinforced panels. One of the first things you learn in this life is that nice-looking ingenuity can hide a lot of ugly necessities. At first glance, our homes may be something straight out of the pages of a designer magazine, but what’s unseen is the extra security to protect us from the evils of a life spent besting our enemies. Bullet-proof glass, reinforced steel in the walls, and cameras hide in almost every corner of the residence.
Cameras that aren’t in what Benito and I lovingly dubbed the Playhouse many years ago.
Despite the lie, I cross into the cool night air and find immediate relief in the darkness. Soft lights dot the side of the house, illuminating the patio in intervals. I weave between the highlighted patches, the path burned into my subconscious, and head for the rose pergola.
Benito’s mother was the first person to introduce me to the small spot of respite on an otherwise heavily guarded property. She brought me out here once, letting me in on the secret when she noticed my poorly disguised tears. “You’re free to be yourself here,” she’d said. “Nobody will judge your behavior within these aromatic walls.” It was one of the few places I felt safe enough to cry.
The climbing roses have grown over the years; the stems that barely reached halfway up the framed walls the last time I visited now curl and sweep over the roof of the painted structure, blocking the tunnel from the world outside. I catch sight of his back at the far end, the broad shoulders and stiff posture of a made man elevating my heart rate a little. He’s no longer the boy I loved—the very reason why I’m here now.
I need to know what happened to the man.
“I apologize for my lateness.” I race along the pavers, my heels clacking loudly against the stone surface. “It wasn’t intentional.”
Benito turns his head slightly, peering at me over his shoulder.
His raw profile strikes me speechless. I noticed the changes in him last night, but my brain was firmly in survival mode—not in the right frame to dissect the details. The soft lips are all that remain of the boyishly handsome face that cut my heart in two all those years ago. His high cheekbones have hardened, cutting a fine indentation to his firm mouth. Innocence has long left the piercing blue of his shadowed eyes, replaced by the clouded darkness of a man forced to grow up faster than most.
I step carefully to his offside, arms folded across my chest. “Is it true?”
He lifts his eyebrows as though to ask, “Is what?”
“You don’t speak.” I state the words more than answer his silent question.
A sardonic smile pulls at his lips, and he huffs while staring at the dark lake beyond.
“Why not?” I take a step closer, angered by the shadows that hide his masculine beauty from me.
His firm gaze locks with mine, and he rolls his lips together. Benito’s nostrils flare, almost as though he’s frustrated at being unable to explain. Or, perhaps he doesn’t want to?
“I thought maybe the silence was only for me when you didn’t say anything.” I duck my head to hide my shame at the memories. “You cut me off so fast, all those years ago, and I always assumed I’d done something to deserve the change of heart.” A cold breeze whips off the water’s placid surface, causing me to shiver.
Benito exhales heavily, his hands sliding free of his slacks pockets. Thick fingers fist tight and then relax repeatedly. He exhales long and loud, his gaze fixed on the ground between our feet. Wherever he is, it’s not with me, and it’s not a good place.
“Our parents will force us to marry, even if we protest.” I tilt my head to meet his reticent eye. “The choice is out of our hands as long as our fathers lead our families. You’ll need to explain why you refuse to speak to me sooner rather than later.”
His cheek twitches, eye flinching as he does. Benito fists his hands—hard—and takes a quick step toward me. I lean back instinctually yet manage to grind my heel to the ground; he won’t intimidate me. No man deserves to make me cower. The woodsy notes of his cologne wash over me, mingling with the soft perfume of the flowers overhead. He exhales heavily and sets his lips in a firm line as he slowly reaches toward me.
I watch his hand turn, the gesture softening the closer he gets. Stiff fingers graze my face in a delicate caress, a sigh shuddering from deep within his chest. He would touch me like this often when we were younger. The muscle memory hits me surprisingly hard as I lean into his affection.
I jerk free of the spell and back up a step. “You can’t pretend nothing happened, Benito.” I grip my upper arms, shielding myself from his influence. “You owe me an explanation of why you cut me off; if not, why you won’t talk to me now.”
He lifts his index finger, closing his eyes briefly as though to indicate we should tackle one thing at a time. I’m inclined to agree. Brilliant blue intensity holds my gaze captive as he ducks his chin slightly and places a hand on his heart.
“Do I trust you?” I frown.
He nods, impassive as always.
I have no answer. My head tells me he’s no threat, but my heart still carries the scars of the wounds he inflicted.
Slowly, as though not to spook me again, Benito extends his hand. He holds mine, guiding our joined touch to his chest. My palm grazes the hard planes of his chest before he settles it over his breastbone, trapping my fingers against him. Our gaze is locked, softness seeping into his harsh stare as he slowly draws in a breath and then exhales.
My frown deepens; I don’t understand.
He shakes his head and then places his free hand on my chest in the same spot as his. Naturally, my intake increases; the intimacy of a simple touch overwhelms parts of me that have longed for this for too long. Again, Benito draws a deep breath, pressing a little harder against my chest as he does.
He wants me to do the same as I feel him doing.
I try to match his pace, slowing my inhale and exhale until our breathing balances. I feel it everywhere, the sense of calm that washes through me as I continue to draw deep, fortifying breaths.
He pats me gently on the breastbone as though to tell me to maintain the pace. I struggle, the anticipation of the moment creating unease when he draws his hands together in a prayer position and places them in front of his face. Benito’s eyes close, his brow furrowed as though unsure what will happen next.
As though he begs for guidance.
I press my palm to his chest, the same as he did me, and urge him to breathe deeply. “What worries you like this?”
He again rolls his lips as though the words long to break free, but something traps him from voicing his thoughts. With a flurry of hands, Benito tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and then taps out a brief message in the notes app. He spins the screen to face me, fingertips pressed white against the sides of the device.
Let me show you why I can’t speak. Why I can never tell you I’m sorry for the things I did, no matter how much I wish I could.
I lift my gaze to his, brow furrowed and a flurry of questions vying for occupancy inside my mind. He lifts a finger and then adds another line.
Please don’t get upset. I don’t want to scare you.
Why would I get sca— oh, my fucking God . I lean closer to Benito’s open mouth, aware that something seems very definitely fucking off about what lies beyond his kissable lips. My brain refuses to believe what my eyes tell it. His unwavering attention burns while he watches me inspect the reason for his silence.
“You have no tongue,” I whisper. “I—I don’t understand.” When? Why? Who?
His jaw snaps shut, and Benito turns away. It pains him to reveal this. Tattooed hands link behind his neck, his arms slung wide as he paces the pergola. The text spaced beneath his knuckles provides a sick contrast to the moment: PEACE and UNITY.
“What happened?” My eyes burn, but I refuse to cry. He can’t physically speak; me being upset at the change in him seems so unnecessarily selfish. “Were you sick?”
He shakes his head, peering at me in his periphery.
The realization slams into me, ripping the wind from my chest. I take a step back and lean heavily onto the thick timber upright. I’d heard about these kinds of barbaric acts, about how they were commonplace in the past. But I didn’t think anyone would be that vile to do this kind of thing anymore.
My vision blurs when I glance up to where Benito stands, his broad shoulders curled inward. “Was it…?” I can’t even voice the notion. “Did somebody cut it out?” My throat thickens, words cracking.
He scrubs a hand over the back of his head and sighs. A nod. A single up and down of his hung head.
My monotone words come deep from my gut as I slump forward, hands braced to knees. “Who the fuck did this? Tell me.”
He shakes his head—I’ve reached the limit of his confessions for one night.
A moment passes while I compose my thoughts; fear runs through me, knowing one of the people inside the house is possibly responsible for this. Perhaps my family. “Was it the reason you cut me off?” I flinch at my careless choice of words as though that’s all that matters when somebody literally butchered him.
His eyes are unusually remorseful as he nods, moving closer to where I lean.
I lift my head and meet the gaze of the man I loved as a boy, who taught me what it was to want something badly enough that you risked everything for one more minute with that person. His jaw tics, the muscle spasming as he studies my reaction. Fuck how I feel—whoever did this to him removed a key thing that we all take for granted in our lives: the ability to voice our thoughts and feelings with proper inflection.
I push to my feet, taking him by surprise, and close the space between us. He’s stiff at first when I throw my arms around him, but before long, his firm and sure hold surrounds me, returning the gesture.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Ben.”
He shudders against me; I haven’t called him that since we were teenagers.
Lovers.
“I wish you’d let me know sooner.”
His embrace tightens. An apology, perhaps. Maybe a regret of his. How would I ever know?
“It means nothing to me, okay?” I pull back and set my hands to either side of his gorgeous face, imploring him to listen. “You’re still the same man in here.” I put one hand on his chest, over his heart.
His brow dives, gaze hooded with sorrow. Benito’s lips move, soundless words shaped slowly and carefully.
I hear every single one loud and clear.
No. I’m not.