Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Siobhán
T he mid-June sun and humidity left the streets unseasonably empty. Granted, at two in the afternoon on a Wednesday, most people were still at work—I should have been at work—but even the tourists were hiding from the oppressive heat. Luckily, my morning bout of nausea subsided after lunch because walking through that soup over the North End’s uneven cobblestones in my condition was not my idea of a good time.
My stomach was tied in knots. It had been working overtime since I found out I was pregnant and doubled down on its efforts to make me miserable after Marco’s lecture. The final straw? Luca texting me and wanting to talk. Stomach three, Siobhán zero.
I couldn’t stop ruminating over my decision to move back to Ireland. Did I really want to leave my family, found or otherwise, when I needed them the most?
Part of me said yes, absolutely. It didn’t take me long to decide that I wanted to keep the baby, which surprised the hell out of me considering Luca’s reaction. But the idea of having my own family brought such warmth and joy to my heart, I couldn’t deny that’s exactly what I wanted—a life and a loved one separate from the Shaughnessy’s dark world. If I moved to Ireland and raised the child myself, I’d finally have the happy, well-adjusted family I always wanted.
And it’s not like any of my relatives would help anyway, not with Luca being the father. I hadn’t told Ciarán or Rory yet, and I was not looking forward to those conversations. I planned to put them off as long as possible.
On the other hand, Marco and Gina were right. My family had grown beyond the Shaughnessys, and I had no doubt the DeVitas would support me. But fear for my safety and now my baby’s safety was never far from my mind.
And then there was Luca. His text message arrived late Monday night.
I don’t deserve it, not after the way I acted, but please give me a chance to explain. I need to make this right. I need to make us right.
I’d stared at the message for hours before responding.
We’ve tried us. Us doesn’t work.
You know that’s not true.
Do I? I can’t do this again, Luca. It hurts too much.
I’m so sorry, Siobhán. Please. Just let me explain.
Fine, but I’m not doing it for me. I’m doing it for the baby.
Luca was my baby’s father. Even if we weren’t together, he had a right to be in our child’s life if that’s what he wanted. I had to at least grant him a moment to say his piece.
Red cursive letters painted on a white plastic sign announced my destination—“Paganini’s Since 1942.” The deli’s glass facade revealed an empty house. Empty except for Luca. He shot to his feet when he spotted me, and my stomach flipped. I wasn’t ready for this conversation, but I opened the door anyway.
A bell chimed as if heralding the start of act three in our drama.
The restaurant was decorated like the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp, complete with red-checkered tablecloths, Chianti-bottle candleholders, and pictures of the Italian countryside. An older gentleman with a substantial stomach and an equally substantial mustache cleared dirty dishes off one of the tables and shouted in Italian over Frank Sinatra’s familiar voice.
“Va bene,” Luca shouted back. He stepped past me and flipped the sign on the door so that “Closed” faced the street. He gave me a sheepish smile, thrust a hand into his hair, and licked his lips. “Hi, Siobhán. Thank you. For coming.”
I swear the man had a sixth sense when it came to getting under my skin. His apologetic tone. His nervous tics. His cologne. The fitted black slacks hugging his thighs. The gold chain peeking out from beneath the collar of his equally fitted black button-down. His scruff. He’d kept it. It was trimmed close, and I fought the urge to run my thumb along his jawline and kiss his pillowy lips. But I wasn’t there for me. I wasn’t even there for us. I was there for our child’s future.
“Hello, Luca,” I said.
He rested his hand on the back of his neck and with a labored swallow lifted his gaze. Time stopped the way it always did when our eyes locked, and the same pull I’d felt since the day we met tugged at my heart. He blinked as if also trapped in our undertow and pulled out a chair at the table in front of the window. “Please,” he said.
I smiled at his attempt at chivalry, set my bag down, and took a seat.
He sat across from me and looked everywhere but my face. I folded my hands atop the table.
He opened his mouth, then slammed it shut, and his eyebrows drew together. “I’m sorry.” The corners of his mouth turned down, and his head tilted, imparting weight to his words.
I nodded, because what he said was true. He was sorry. But… “What—” I cleared my throat. “What, exactly, are you sorry for?”
His eyes widened on a full breath, and he leaned back in his chair. He puffed out his cheeks on the exhale and glanced out the window. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said quietly.
“Well, you could start with how you left me sobbing hysterically after telling you I’m pregnant with your baby.”
He winced. “Yeah. I should probably start there.”
“I needed you.” I promised myself I’d stay cool, but my pain at what felt a lot like betrayal was too powerful. “I was shocked and scared and instead of talking to me, you left. Without a word.”
“I panicked.”
“And I wasn’t panicking? I’m pregnant!”
“I know, I know. I should have stayed. A better man would have stayed. But I’m not a good man, Siobhán. Never have been.”
I shook my head. “That wasn’t the first time you walked away from me, and now you expect me to pretend like that’s okay? Like you haven’t broken my heart multiple times?”
And I had pretended. I’d worn my rose-colored glasses hoping things would go back to the way they were before The Incident. I’d wanted him to make me feel special again, to fill my heart to near bursting. I’d wanted to feel like I mattered to him, like we belonged together. I’d pretended, because I desperately wanted to get that feeling back.
“No more,” I said. “I’m done. I’m done having my heart stomped on only to come back and let you do it again.”
“Don’t say that. Please. I shouldn’t have pushed you away, but I’m not as strong as you, and I’m sorry for that too. Letting you go that night was a huge mistake, and I’ve regretted it every day since.” He shoved a hand into his hair. “Fuck, Siobhán, I didn’t know what I was doing. You have to give me another chance.”
“Have to?” I cocked an eyebrow. “I want to trust you, Luca. I really do. But I have no reason to believe this time will be any different.”
“It is different, because I’m done walking away. I’m done running from this, from us. That’s why I asked you here. Because I need to explain why.”
He leaned across the table and wrapped his big hands around mine. I pulled back, not wanting him to touch me—every time he touched me, he broke another piece of my heart—but he wouldn’t let go.
“My reaction had nothing to do with not wanting you or the baby. God, Siobhán, I can’t imagine a life without you. But I—” His lips slammed shut.
“What?” I prompted, eager against my better judgment. That spark of hope just would not die.
“Do you remember the night you came into my bedroom? The night I had those bad dreams?”
“Yes.”
“You told me you had nightmares too. About the shooting.”
I nodded.
He stared at our joined hands and ran his thumb across the backs of my fingers. “I relive the weeks after Vesuvio. The night Marco disowned me. My father’s funeral. The images fade in and out of my mind. They string themselves together like scenes from some fucked-up movie.”
He stopped and pressed his lips together, and his grip on my hands tightened.
“But the one that always wakes me up…” His eyebrows drew together. “The one that makes me scream…” He shook his head. “It’s not even a real memory. At least, not one of mine. My mother—” His voice cracked, and his lips twisted into a frown. “She’s laying on a bed covered in blood, and she’s dying. And I know”—his voice wavered—“I know it’s my fault.”
“Oh, God. Luca?—”
“My father is holding me. I’d just been born. He’s crying. He loved her so much. And I—I killed her.”
“No. Luca, no.” I shook my head and squeezed his hands. “You didn’t kill her. Mia told me what happened. It was a—a blood incompatibility. I’ve heard of that. You can’t blame yourself.”
“It’s not that simple. You need to know the truth.”
“Then tell me. Because I don’t understand, and I want to understand.”
Luca’s thumb moved back and forth at a frantic pace.
The restaurant door opened with a chime and a swoosh. I glanced over my shoulder, rattled by the interruption.
Marco stepped inside. Vito, Vinnie Valenzano, and an older gentleman I’d never seen before filed in after him, sparing us surprised glances as they moved toward the back.
“Goddammit,” Luca growled.
Marco released the door and rested his hand on my shoulder. “Ciao, Luca. Siobhán. Didn’t expect to find you here.”
“I wanted a safe and private place to talk,” Luca shot back.
Marco’s lips quirked. “Same, nipote, same. Mikey’s arraignment is next week, non ricordi? We have business to discuss.” He quirked an apologetic smile. “And Vinnie was hungry.”
Luca shoved a hand in his hair.
“è tutto a posto, no?” Marco said. “Plenty of space.”
Luca waved him off and looked out the window.
Marco looked down at me and winked. “Listen to what he has to say, capisce?”
The warmth in Marco’s eyes put me at ease. “Capisce.”
“Bene.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked to the back of the restaurant. He sat across from Vinnie, already deep in conversation with the other two men.
“This is not how I wanted to have this conversation,” Luca grumbled.
His fists were balled on the table, his jaw tight and angry.
“It’s fine.” I wiggled my fingers into his fists, forcing them to relax. “Ignore them.”
“Right. Okay.” He nodded and leaned in, pulling me toward him. “It’s not that simple. We didn’t have a blood incompatibility. I mean, we did, but—” He shook his head. “It’s why I freaked out when you told me we”—he swallowed—“we’re going to have a baby. I kept seeing you covered in blood just like my mother. I—I freaked out.”
“Oh, Luca, I?—”
“I’m sorry this is what it took for me to realize what I had and how I feel about you, but I’m here now. I get it. Nothing else matters if you’re not in my life. Not the past, not the future, not this vendetta. Nothing. Losing you is a nightmare I never want to face, and I regret every day I wasted not making you mine.” His voice shook, the intensity of his words reflected in the crimson specks of fire shining in his eyes.
“I—I don’t know what to say.” My mind raced trying to process his heartfelt admission and whether it changed anything. “I’ve given you so many chances. Every time I think things have changed and I let you back in, it hurts that much more when you break my heart.” My voice cracked. I didn’t want to go down this road; I didn’t know if I could survive losing him again.
“You called me a coward that night I took you home, and you were right. I was a coward. I was a coward that night you caught me feeding at Vesuvio. I was a coward hiding behind my anger toward your family. I’ve held on to this vendetta for so long, the thought of letting it go scared the hell out of me. But the only thing that scares me now is living one more day without you.”
Each word of Luca’s confession landed hard, his regret and realizations sincere and profound. They transformed that spark of hope into a flame and forced my heart to beat for him once more.
But my brain hitched on one word. “Feeding?”
The bell above the door chimed.
Luca lifted his gaze and gritted his teeth. “Dannazione. Seriously?”
“Luca! Siobhán!” Gina DeVita’s voice echoed through the small space. “What are you two doing here?”
I lowered my head and pinched the bridge of my nose, needing a minute to collect myself before facing Gina.
“Oh,” she said and understanding replaced her bright tone. “Well. I’m here to pick up Vito. We need to get to the courthouse before it closes. Mikey’s arraignment is next week. I’ll be out of your hair in un attimo.
“Vito, sei pronto?” Gina tossed the words over her shoulder.
I lifted my head, not wanting to be rude. “Hello, Gina,” I said and managed a smile.
“Ciao, bella. How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Thankfully, the morning sickness sticks to the mornings.” I gave her a wry smile.
“You’ve been sick?” Luca interjected.
Gina glared at him, and I rolled my eyes.
Vito stepped up to our table. “Luca. Ms. Connelly. Gina.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said to Luca through a disapproving frown. She shifted her attention to me and gentled her expression. “How about I come over this weekend and show you how to prepare my mamma’s recipe for ginger tea? Generations of DeVitas swear by its power to cure morning sickness.”
“That sounds wonderful, Gina. Thank you.”
“Naturalmente, mia cara.” She turned to Vito. “Andiamo.”
Gina and Vito walked out of the deli, and the little bell above the door chimed again in their wake. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath.
“This was a terrible idea doing this here,” Luca said.
I sighed the breath out. “It’s fine, Luca. Really.”
“I thought you’d be more comfortable in public.” He waved a hand through the air, sat back in his chair, and stared out the window. “And it’s not like there are a lot of public places where it’s safe to talk about this stuff.”
“We can go somewhere else if it’s bothering you.” Maybe he couldn’t think of somewhere else to go?
His gaze remained locked out the window.
“I mean, I don’t know why we couldn’t talk about this at some other restaurant. Or a coffee shop. There are plenty in the square.”
He narrowed his eyes but kept them fixed out the window.
“Luca?”
I followed his gaze to where Gina and Vito stood chatting in the street. A car rumbled across the cobblestones, slow and plodding. It reached the deli, and its tinted windows rolled down.
Luca sprang to his feet, knocking the table onto its side. “Get down!”
I jumped out of my chair, and he lunged in front of me amid the crack of gunfire and shattering glass.