9. Sicily #3
“Adriano and I have also had a discussion.” My head shot up to find my husband as he continued, “You are permitted to move to New York as you once expressed your desire to do so.”
Francesco breathed. He breathed like he’d been waiting for it his whole life, like someone had handed him the keys to freedom and told him he was finally welcome somewhere.
Milan began to talk to Adriano about contracts and legalities, but Francesco was only focused on the drawing that I clutched tightly in my fingers. He cleared his throat but kept his voice low and private between us. “You drew Adrian.”
“I drew Adrian, but I also drew you.” I smiled.
He frowned.
I pointed to the sketched eyes of the Famiglia’s Consigliere. “You’re here.” Then I slid the pen down to the tiny heart I’d drawn on Adriano’s chest. “And here.”
His lungs sucked in hard, and his own heart beat so furiously that I could see his shirt jumping. “That’s not true—"
“It is, and that’s okay.” I tucked my fingers around his wrist in his lap, squeezing once.
It was a crime to be gay in the Cosa Nostra. They knew that as well as I did, and just because we didn’t like the discrimination didn’t mean it was easy to change, especially if the man in charge had no idea.
I slipped the drawing into his shirt’s top pocket, tapping it like that would seal it there. “Don’t give up, because I won’t.”
Women weren’t the only people who needed freedom from the Famiglia’s rules.
“Where are you going?” Milan snapped over his laptop the moment I got up out of my seat on the jet.
My eyes rolled harshly. “To where you’re not.”
I strolled down the aisle to Adriano at the front of the plane. He had distanced himself from us, which was unusual; even Milan had seemed confused, but I saw why the second he came into view, and my steps slowed as I stared at him.
Tears streaked his soft face, his eyes closed as if trying to keep them in.
“Adriano,” I whispered, taking a seat beside him and looping my fingers into his. He didn’t protest as I rested my head on his shoulder. I wondered if he needed to be touched and held.
His tears turned into cries the minute he squeezed my hand back, and I hated that he kept them quiet, that he felt like his pain had to be muted. He nuzzled his nose into my hair, letting his tears fall there instead of nowhere.
Whenever I painted tears in my paintings at the studio, I always depicted them as growing flowers so that it didn’t hurt as much to look at. I knew this kind of pain, his pain, would grow flowers one day; he just had to be patient and a little bit brave.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” I smiled sadly. “You shouldn’t have to be sorry for loving someone, Adriano.”
“It’s not love. It can’t be.”
“Why?” I frowned.
He blew all of the air from his lungs. “He’s the Capo dei Capi of the fucking Outfit for one.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “And besides, your heart doesn’t care who they are, just like his heart also doesn’t care who you are, not really.”
“It’s a crime to be gay in the Famiglia, Sicily. There’s no getting around that no matter how much I might love him. Besides…” He sniffled. “He’s busy getting blow jobs anyway.”
I winced thinking of the raw anger I’d seen on Adriano’s face. “Why would he do that? He obviously loves you too.”
“Because I told him we couldn’t happen, that we were done. The women are always there, always waiting to convince him that being gay is a sin again.” He shook his head firmly. “I won’t put my brother in jeopardy for me.”
Tears clung to my eyelashes as I whispered, “Milan would never hurt you, would he?”
He inhaled deeply, like the effort to simply be ached somewhere only he could feel. “I would never put him in the position where he might have to choose not to hurt me. If he were to be seen hiding the truth about someone like me, they’d expect him to kill me, or exile me, and if he didn’t, well—”
“But he’s the boss; he can just legitimize it, can’t he?” I argued gently, careful to keep my voice low and away from Milan down the jet.
Adriano looked down at me, and the pain and hopelessness on his face broke me into a gazillion pieces. “You have such a big heart and so many feelings.” He laughed weakly. “How did you end up with us?”
I wasn’t certain what I’d done in my life to have led me on this path, and though I wasn’t glad that I had Milan as my husband, I was more than happy that I’d met Adriano, and he had been able to tell just one person how his heart cried.
I hugged him hard, throwing my arms around his neck as if just a pair of hands could make it all better. “I will find a way for you, okay?”
He began to shake his head but stopped, like maybe, just maybe, he could hope once more.
I swallowed the sob in my throat. “I won’t stop until we’re sitting at your wedding and this pain feels like a distant memory.”
Adriano breathed for the first time since we’d boarded the jet. He closed his eyes, not to hold back tears, but to rest in the knowledge that somebody else was going to protect this.