15. Valerio
VALERIO
The front door closes behind us, and I still feel the urge to turn back.
Not to speak.
Speaking would be a waste of time. Elena Berardi heard me. Paolo heard me. Camillo heard me too, though my patience with Camillo is thin enough tonight that breathing in his direction feels generous.
No, I want to go back because I left that table too clean.
I left her mother with an apology that cost nothing but pride.
I left her father with his dignity intact because Federica was standing beside me and shaking so quietly only a man watching her as closely as I was could tell.
I left Camillo with both hands, both eyes, every tooth in his mouth, and the kind of self-pitying silence men like him wear when they want credit for feeling bad.
I should’ve done more.
The thought is ugly. Simple. Honest.
I should’ve put my fist through the wall beside her father’s head.
I should’ve made Camillo say, out loud, what he did.
I should’ve taken every soft, smiling insult Elena Berardi wrapped around her daughter’s throat and fed it back to her one word at a time until she understood exactly how poison tastes.
Federica’s hand is still in mine.
That stops the worst of it.
Her fingers are cold. Too cold. She walks beside me down the front steps with her chin up and her shoulders squared, the same way she walked out of my office after agreeing to marry me. Controlled. Elegant. Furious enough to survive.
I hate that I recognize the performance.
I hate more that I know how long she’s practiced it.
The car waits at the curb. Tito stands beside the rear door, expression blank as always.
I should put Federica in the car. I should let Tito take her home. I should find another target for the violence still crawling under my skin.
Then she turns her face toward me.
Her eyes are bright.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For having my back."
Something in my chest twists so hard I nearly reach for her. My hand wants her jaw. My mouth wants her tears. I want to kiss away every bruise those people left where no one can see, and the wanting is sharp enough to make me dangerous.
Two nights ago, I kissed her because my grief got drunk and found the one thing in my life it wanted more than control.
I won’t do that again.
I release her carefully.
“Tito will take you home,” I say.
Her brows draw together. “What?”
“I’ll get a cab.”
“A cab.” She looks at me like I’ve suggested traveling by mule. “You have a driver.”
“He’s taking you.”
"He can take both of us. Last I checked, we live together."
Hunger claws at the walls of my restraint. "I won't be going home now."
She crosses her arms defensively. Her face tells me she can smell my bullshit a mile away. “Why's that?”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“No, you don’t.” Her frown turns into a scowl.
Her fingers dig into her sleeves. She looks like she’s ready to fight God over this, even though God had nothing to do with it.
“You’ve been gone for two days. You show up at my parents’ looking like you haven’t slept since the Eisenhower administration, you announce our wedding and disinvite them in the same breath, and now you’re sending me home with Tito like an Amazon return? ”
I clench my fists. “I’m not discussing this here.”
“Great. Then discuss it in the car.”
“I don’t want to get in the car with you.”
The words come out harsher than I mean them to. Her face changes, just slightly, and I hate myself for catching it. She hides hurt quickly. Too quickly. That is another thing those people taught her.
I lower my voice. “Federica.”
“No.” She steps closer. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like it’s supposed to mean anything to you.”
My jaw tightens.
I deserve that. She will never know how much her name means to me. That'll be my cross to bear.
She studies me for a second, the anger in her face shifting into something more careful. Softer. It puts my back up faster than anger would have.
“This is about your family, isn’t it?” she asks.
Surprise slams into me. "Excuse me?"
"Your parents weren't here. Mom said they were never even invited." She peers into my eyes. "What's going on, Rio?"
And maybe it's the sound of my name in her mouth. My old name, the one that still felt like it belonged to me and not to the ruthless Capo Greco. Maybe it's her face, eyes brimming with a kindness I know I don't deserve.
Maybe I'm just tired. So, so fucking tired.
My mind forms the words, None of your business, but what my mouth says is, "My parents are dead."