Chapter Fourteen
GIO
The generator powers four rooms.
Keira chooses the kitchen. I tell myself this is because the refrigerator contains the food.
It is a poor lie. Wind drives rain against the shutters. The old house answers with small sounds: wood shifting, pipes knocking, glass trembling inside cabinet doors.
Keira stands at the island cutting onions. She holds the knife correctly.
She cuts them incorrectly.
“Those pieces are different sizes,” I say.
“They will be subjected to the same heat.”
“They will cook at different rates.”
“Then the pan should improve its controls.”
“The pan is not responsible for your misconduct.”
She pushes the cutting board toward me.
“Fix it.”
I do. The file from my study remains closed beside her laptop.
Neither of us has forgotten it. We agreed on a temporary suspension of hostilities while the storm crossed the city and dinner became necessary.
The suspension contains no terms. That is unusual for us.
“What are we making?” she asks.
“Pasta e ceci.”
“Beans.”
“Chickpeas.”
“Financially similar.”
“Culinarily offensive.”
She opens a can. I remove it from her hand.
“We use dried.”
“There is a hurricane.”
“Tropical storm.”
“The distinction will comfort the roof.”
“We soaked them this morning.”
“You anticipated chickpeas.”
“I anticipate hunger.”
She leans against the island. Candlelight softens her face, though nothing about her expression is soft.
Her hair is pulled into a loose knot. A strand has escaped near her cheek. I want to touch it.
I continue chopping.
“Why Sicily?” she asks.
“I told you.”
“Your father sent you away.”
“Yes.”
“That is the official answer.”
“You are developing professional contempt for official answers.”
“I was born with it.”
I add garlic to the pot. Heat releases the smell immediately.
“For refusing an order,” I say.
“The bookmaker.”
“Yes.”
“What was the rest?”
I look at her. She waits without reaching for her pen.
“The man owed my father money. Ettore wanted me to break his hand.”
“And you refused.”
“I offered to restructure the debt.”
Keira’s mouth curves.
“Of course you did.”
“I was nineteen.”
“Still very Italian of you.”
“I thought mathematics might prevent violence.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
I stir the garlic.
“Someone else broke both hands.”
Her expression changes.
“And your father punished you for refusing?”
“He called it education.”
“Sicily.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hate him?”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
The pot simmers. Outside, something heavy strikes the street.
A tree limb, perhaps.
“I wanted him to become a different man,” I say. “That is a more durable form of anger.”
Keira studies the flame beneath the pot.
“Declan wanted that from our father.”
“What kind of man?”
“One who understood the docks were a business, not a monarchy.”
“And you?”
“I wanted Declan to stop trying.”
“Why?”
“Because wanting people to change makes their refusal feel personal.”
Her voice has lost its sharpness. I add the chickpeas.
“What would you do if you were not a Brennan?” I ask.
“Work.”
“That was not the question.”
“It is the answer.”
“Same firm?”
She hesitates.
“No.”
“Why stay?”
“Partnership.”
“Do you want partnership?”
“I have worked five years for it.”
“That was not the question either.”
She looks annoyed. Good.
“Maybe,” she says. “I want the proof that I earned it.”
“Proof for whom?”
She reaches for the wine. I hand her a glass.
“For everyone who thinks my surname explains my ambition.”
“And after?”
“After what?”
“After they believe you.”
Her laugh is small.
“They won’t.”
“No.”
She drinks.
“What about you?”
“I would cook.”
“You already cook.”
“I would cook without explaining why it is acceptable.”
The answer remains between us. The house shudders under a gust.
Keira turns toward the shuttered windows.
“Is that normal?”
“For this house?”
“For weather.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is a poor engineering standard.”
“You checked your go-bag this morning.”
She looks back at me.
“You saw.”
“Yes.”
“Did you object?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because leaving should remain available if staying is meant to matter.”
The sentence is more honest than I intended. Her glass lowers.
I turn back to the pot. She moves around the island.
Stops beside me. The distance is small.
“Your shoulder,” she says.
The old scar is visible above the collar of my shirt where I removed two buttons because of the heat.
“What about it?”
“That is not from a kitchen.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“At twenty-four, I tried to negotiate with a man who preferred a knife.”
“You were stabbed.”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
She waits.
“Nino did,” I say.
“Who is Nino?”
“My cousin. He died two years later.”
Her fingers touch the edge of the scar. The contact is light.
Questioning. I do not move.
“Did you want him to?” she asks.
“Kill the man?”
“Yes.”
“At the time.”
“And now?”
“I wish fewer people had died because men around me confused consequence with blood.”
Her palm settles against my chest. The storm continues.
The kitchen becomes very quiet between each strike of rain.
“Gio.”
“Yes.”
“I am still angry.”
“I know.”
“I do not trust you completely.”
“I know.”
“You are not allowed to interpret this as forgiveness.”
“I won’t.”
She rises onto her toes and kisses me. There is no audience.
No photographer. No room requiring proof.
Her mouth touches mine because she decides it should. For one second, I cannot do anything except receive it.
Then my hand settles at her waist. I stop before pulling her closer.
“Keira.”
“What?”
“Do you want this?”
She looks directly at me.
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
A flicker of irritation.
“Yes, Giovanni.”
The use of my full name is either emphasis or threat. Possibly both.
“Any conditions?”
Her mouth curves against mine.
“Does this require an addendum?”
“A verbal clause is valid during emergencies.”
“Convenient.”
She kisses me again. This time, I pull her against me.
The contact is not gentle, but it is measured. I feel the line of her body through thin fabric, the pressure of her fingers at my neck, the way her control changes when desire becomes impossible to categorize.
She makes a quiet sound. I slow down.
Her fingers tighten.
“Do not become cautious now.”
“I am not cautious.”
“You stopped.”
“I am listening.”
“To what?”
“You.”
Something in her expression opens. I kiss her jaw, then the place beneath her ear.
Her head tips back. Every response is information she gives willingly.
I take none of it for granted. My hands move beneath the edge of her shirt and pause against warm skin.
“Still yes?”
“Yes.”
She pulls the shirt over her head herself. The candlelight moves across pale skin and a faint scar near her ribs.
I touch it.
“Bike accident,” she says.
“You?”
“Declan. I was on the back.”
“Of course.”
“He blamed the road.”
“Was it the road?”
“No.”
Her smile disappears when I kiss the scar. Not from sadness.
From attention. Keira notices everything. Being noticed in return affects her more than praise.
I lift her onto the edge of the island. She glances toward the cutting board.
“You moved the knife.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before.”
“You anticipated this?”
“I anticipate risk.”
“Arrogant.”
“You kissed me.”
“A temporary lapse in governance.”
I kiss her until she stops speaking in clauses. The pot simmers behind us.
Rain pounds the roof. Her hands move beneath my shirt, over the old scar, down my back. She does not avoid the damaged places.
I remove the rest of her clothing slowly enough that she can stop me at any point. She does not.
When my fingers move between her thighs, her eyes close.
“No,” I say.
They open.
“What?”
“Look at me.”
The request comes out rougher than intended. She studies my face.
Then nods. I touch her until her breaths lose their even pattern, until her hand grips my shoulder and her forehead rests against mine.
She says my name once. Not Gio.
Giovanni. The sound nearly ends my control.
I reach for the drawer where the kitchen keeps more than contracts. She watches me remove protection.
“Prepared,” she says.
“Responsible.”
“Statistically attractive.”
I laugh against her mouth.
“That is the least romantic thing anyone has said to me.”
“It was not intended as romance.”
“Another lie.”
She goes quiet. I give her time to change her mind.
“Keira.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me if anything changes.”
“I will.”
When I enter her, I do it slowly. Her body tightens around me.
Her fingers press into my shoulders. We remain still.
The storm moves around the house in violent circles, but nothing inside this room happens without choice.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“More?”
“Yes.”
I move. Keira’s desire is not surrender. It is participation with teeth. She meets me, pulls me closer, tells me when to stop slowing down.
I listen. Her forehead touches mine.
The distance between anger and need disappears without erasing either. When she comes, she bites my shoulder to contain the sound.
The pain is sharp. Welcome.
I follow with my face against her neck and both hands holding her as if the floor has become unreliable.
For several seconds, the only sound I can separate from the storm is her breathing. Then the pot boils over.
Keira opens her eyes.
“Your controls failed.”
I laugh. A full laugh.
Unfamiliar enough that it startles me. I turn off the burner while she remains on the island wearing my shirt and nothing else.
The image is more dangerous than anything the storm can do.
Later, we eat overcooked pasta from the same bowl. She sits with one foot against my thigh.
The file from the study is still closed. The contract remains in the drawer two feet away.
Neither of us reaches for either.
At three in the morning, the generator coughs. Keira is asleep against my chest on the kitchen sofa.
I stare at the dark ceiling. I should tell her everything now.
The secondary office. The records I removed.
Salvi driving. Ettore’s order.
The photograph at the funeral. I told her enough in the car to sound honest.
Not enough to be honest. Her hand rests over my ribs.
Trusting me in sleep is not the same as trusting me awake. It still feels like something stolen.
Outside, the storm begins moving north. Inside, I hold the woman whose brother’s death I helped conceal.