Chapter Thirty-Eight
LUCIA
It is nearly midnight when we reach Belmont.
Angela is waiting in the open doorway with her arms folded tightly across her chest. Light from the foyer surrounds her, spilling down the front steps into the dark drive.
The moment I step out of the SUV, her composure disappears.
She comes down the steps and pulls me against her.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s only my feet.”
“And your hands.”
“They’re only scraped.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m all right.”
“No, you are not.”
She holds me harder.
For four days, I refused to cry in front of Matteo.
Now I bury my face against Angela’s shoulder and sob.
She strokes my hair.
“I know,” she whispers. “You’re home now.”
Gio stands close enough that his hand rests against my back.
Marco remains a few feet away.
He gives me space.
He always seems to know when I need it now.
Angela finally releases me.
She looks at the men behind us.
“Why is she standing outside?”
Gio lifts both hands.
“We’ve been here fifteen seconds.”
“Fourteen too many.”
Angela puts her arm around me and leads me inside.
Dario and Bruno wait in the foyer.
Dario still has a bruise along his jaw. Bruno’s arm is in a sling, although he insists it’s only a precaution.
Their relief is quiet.
Personal.
Dario kisses my cheek.
Bruno touches my shoulder.
Neither mentions that I ordered them to leave me behind.
They don’t have to.
Angela points toward the stairs.
“Bath. Clean clothes. I’ll bring something up.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I did not ask.”
Gio leans closer.
“Don’t fight her. She’s been preparing for this moment for four days.”
Angela glares at him.
“I was worried.”
“So was I.”
Her expression softens.
I look down at my bare feet. Blood has begun seeping through the temporary bandage around one heel.
“A bath sounds wonderful.”
Angela follows me upstairs.
In the bathroom, she removes the bandages Marco wrapped around my feet on the boat and examines the cuts.
None are deep.
They still sting when she cleans them.
She washes the worst of the grit from my palms too.
“I’ll dress everything again after your bath,” she says.
She places a folded nightgown and robe on the counter. Towels wait beside the tub.
“Do you need help?”
“I can manage.”
Her expression says she disagrees.
“I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
That satisfies her.
She closes it behind her.
The bathwater turns gray around me.
I wash four days of fear from my skin.
Matteo’s house.
The locked room.
The tunnel beneath the estate.
The cold floor of the boathouse.
My hands begin to shake when I reach for the soap.
I close my eyes.
I’m home.
The bathroom door doesn’t lock from the outside.
No one stands guard in the hall.
I repeat the words until my breathing settles.
When the water cools, I climb out and dry myself.
The nightgown Angela left for me is soft and white, with thin straps and a hem that reaches my knees. I pull the robe over it and tie the belt tightly.
A knock sounds at the bedroom door.
“Come in.”
Gio enters carrying a tray.
Soup.
Bread.
Tea with honey.
He has changed clothes, but he hasn’t shaved. There are shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair still looks as though he dried it with his hands.
He places the tray on the table near the window.
“You could have knocked while I was still naked.”
“I waited until Angela came downstairs.”
“That doesn’t mean I was dressed.”
“I was prepared to behave with dignity.”
“You?”
“I said prepared. I didn’t say capable.”
He sits in the chair near the window.
“How long have you been sleeping in here?” I ask.
His gaze moves toward the bed.
“Who told you?”
“The pillow smells like you.”
“That could be from any number of innocent activities.”
“Gio.”
“Three nights.”
My chest aches.
I sit on the edge of the bed and untie my robe. The fabric falls open over the nightgown.
His gaze drops briefly.
Then returns to my face.
“Where are the bandages?”
“Angela took them off before the bath.”
“She’ll want to replace them.”
“She said she would.”
Gio crosses the room and crouches in front of me.
“May I look?”
I nod.
He lifts one foot carefully, supporting my ankle in his palm.
The cuts look worse after soaking in the bath. Angry red lines cross my heel and the ball of my foot.
His jaw tightens.
“It looks worse than it feels.”
“That doesn’t make me like it.”
He checks the other foot.
Then he retrieves the medical supplies Angela left on the dresser.
“You know how to do this?”
“I’ve been shot twice.”
I stare at him.
“You’ve been shot?”
“That might have been information better saved for another evening.”
“Where?”
“Shoulder and thigh.”
“When?”
“Lucy.”
“Gio.”
He looks up at me.
“Can we finish one injury before discussing the complete history of mine?”
“No.”
His mouth curves.
“There you are.”
He cleans my feet and applies fresh dressings, his hands surprisingly gentle. Then he covers the worst scrape on one palm.
When he finishes, I touch his cheek.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he says.
“You didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
He turns his face and presses his mouth to my palm.
Then he rises and kisses me.
Slowly.
Carefully.
There is none of the urgency from the pool. His hands remain light against my waist.
When he begins to draw away, I follow.
The kiss deepens.
He makes a quiet sound against my mouth, but he doesn’t take more than I offer.
Someone stops in the doorway.
Marco.
Gio feels me stiffen and turns.
Neither brother moves.
Marco’s attention settles on my hands in Gio’s hair.
“I came to check on you,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
He looks at my bandaged feet.
“That remains debatable.”
Gio steps back.
I catch his hand before he can move far.
Then I look at Marco.
“Will you stay?”
His gaze moves from my face to Gio’s hand in mine.
“If you want me to.”
“I do.”
He closes the door behind him.
I hold out my other hand.
Marco stares at it.
For a moment, the most powerful man I know looks uncertain.
Then he takes it.
I draw him closer.
The three of us stand beside the bed, connected by my hands.
No one speaks.
I turn to Gio and kiss him once.
Then I face Marco.
His thumb moves across my knuckles.
I rise onto my toes and kiss him too.
The kiss is restrained.
Almost formal.
Until his hand settles at the back of my neck.
Heat moves through me.
Gio’s fingers tighten around mine, but he doesn’t pull me away.
There is no jealousy in his touch.
Only presence.
When Marco releases me, his forehead rests briefly against mine.
“You should eat,” he says.
I laugh softly.
“You and Angela are very much alike.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
I sit on the bed and pick up the soup.
Gio takes the place beside me. Marco sits in the chair near the window.
“You’re both staying,” I say.
Gio glances at the bed, eyebrows high.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
Marco watches me.
“To sleep,” I clarify.
Gio sighs.
“You always ruin the promising part of a sentence.”
I throw a corner of the blanket at him.
He catches it.
After I eat, Gio collects the tray and leaves it in the hall.
Marco removes his watch and places it on the nightstand.
Then both brothers begin to undress.
I watch.
I don’t mean to be obvious about it.
I probably am.
Marco folds his shirt and trousers over the back of the chair. Gio drops his clothes onto the floor until Marco picks them up and puts them beside his own.
They strip to their boxer briefs.
They have the same broad shoulders and narrow hips. The same long muscles across their backs. Even the way they move is similar.
But they aren’t identical.
Dark ink covers Gio’s left shoulder and travels partway down his arm. More follows the line of his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.
Marco has only one tattoo.
A short line of script crosses his left side, just beneath his ribs.
I look at Gio.
The same words are hidden among the other ink on his body.
“What does it say?”
Both men glance down.
Gio answers.
“Sempre insieme.”
“Always together,” Marco translates.
“I know enough Italian to understand that.”
“Do you?” Gio asks.
“I’ve been living with Angela.”
“That explains the accent.”
I look more closely at the script.
“The handwriting is different from the rest.”
“It was our mother’s,” Gio says.
Something in his voice makes me stop teasing.
“She wrote it in a birthday card when we were eighteen,” Marco explains.
“You both have it.”
Gio glances at his brother.
“Always together.”
The words should make me feel like an outsider.
They don’t.
Not when both men are standing beside my bed because I asked them to stay.
My gaze moves over Gio’s other tattoos.
“What are those?”
“A long series of questionable decisions.”
“One of them appears to be a saint.”
“Saint Michael.”
“And the others?”
“You’ll have to inspect them more closely.”
Marco sighs.
“Subtle.”
“I’ve never claimed to be subtle.”
Gio climbs beneath the covers.
Marco turns off the lamp before joining us on the other side.
There is nothing threatening in their near-nakedness.
But I am aware of them.
Their warmth.
The shape of their bodies beneath the sheets.
The fact that the thin cotton of my nightgown is the only thing between my skin and theirs.
I lie between them.
Gio curls one arm around my waist.
Marco settles on his back, careful not to crowd me.
I reach for his hand beneath the blanket.
His fingers close around mine.
For the first time in four nights, I sleep.
I wake with my cheek against Gio’s bare chest and one leg tangled with his.
His tattoos are closer now. Black lines disappear beneath my hand where it rests against his ribs.
Marco is still beside me.
He is awake, staring at the ceiling.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
“A little.”
Gio’s arm tightens around me.
“That means no.”
“It means a little.”
“I can hear both of you,” Gio mutters.
I lift my head.
His eyes remain closed.
“Are you awake?”
“No.”
I kiss the corner of his mouth.
His eyes open.
“That helped.”
Marco starts to move.
I catch his wrist.
He looks at me.
“You don’t have to leave.”
“It’s morning.”
“I noticed.”
“Angela may come in.”
“So?”
“So this is not what she needs to see first thing in the morning.”
I laugh.
“It’s not like she doesn’t know what’s going on beneath this roof.”
He settles back.
The covers have slipped to his waist.