Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Valentino
The kitchen is the color of wet ash. I haven't turned on a light. The window above the sink shows a square of sky already giving up on the day.
The front door opens without a knock, and Luca steps inside.
"We're set." He stays on the threshold, jacket on, gloves in one hand. "Fabio confirmed the apartment. Trastevere is clean. If we leave now, we hit Rome late enough to move her without an audience."
He's gone before I answer.
There is mercy in working with a man who never wastes a sentence.
I sit one more breath in the dark kitchen before I get up.
She's curled on her side when I open the bedroom door, hoodie sleeve bunched in her fist near her mouth. I crouch by the bed and put my hand on her ankle through the blanket.
"Bella."
She makes a sound that isn't a word.
"We're going."
Her eyes open like she's surfacing from somewhere deep. It takes her two blinks to find me. When she does, her whole body unclenches.
"Okay," she says.
"Follow me."
"Yes, sir." Half a smile.
In the hallway, Elio is already on his feet.
"Change of plans. You're behind us by one hour," I tell him. "Clean the house. Take a different route. If anyone is on the road for us, they're watching for the car they think we're in, which is yours. If we're all together, the risk is bigger."
"Understood."
Luca has the back door of the second car open. I put my hand on the small of Amanda's back and guide her in. She folds herself onto the leather without a word.
I slide in beside her and pull the door shut. The interior light dies, leaving only the dash glow on her cheekbones, the hollow under her eye, and her hands folded in her lap like she's been told to keep them there.
"This is Luca," I say. "My right hand."
Luca looks at her through the rearview mirror and gives a short nod.
"Hi," Amanda says.
Luca pulls us off the gravel. The headlights catch a fence post, then the road drops dark again.
I take out my phone and call Bruno.
"We're moving," I say when he answers.
"Call me when you're inside the apartment."
"Capito."
I hang up and slide the phone into my jacket.
Amanda is quiet for the first few miles. I can feel the question sitting between us before she says my name.
"Valentino."
"Mm."
"Why can't we just go back to Chicago?"
I knew she would ask.
I keep my eyes on the road.
"Because in our world, when something like this happens, we don't put everyone in the same place."
She turns toward me.
"The Sartoris can't afford that kind of risk," I say. "If I bring you to Chicago and Enzo finds the house, he doesn't just find me. He finds Bruno. Vittoria. Pietro. Aria. Everyone."
The car takes two more curves before she speaks.
"So Rome is what? A pressure valve?"
"Rome is neutral. Enzo has men in Sicily and Calabria. He has friends in Naples. Rome is harder for him. Not impossible. Harder." I look out at the hedges passing the window. "Fabio has the apartment. Luca knows the route. Bruno knows where we are. That's as safe as I can make it tonight."
She's quiet.
I could make it sound temporary. For now. A few weeks. Until Bruno settles it. Maybe all of that is true, but I won't give her a promise I might not be able to keep.
When I turn to her, a tear slips down her cheek.
She looks out the window before I can say anything.
I reach across and take her hand. She doesn't squeeze back, but she doesn't pull away either as Luca turns south onto the main road.
The autostrada peels past in long gray ribbons, and I have been staring at the same stretch of guardrail for I don't know how many kilometers.
Luca drives and doesn't talk. Beside me, Amanda has finally fallen asleep, head tipped toward the window, my jacket bunched under her cheek.
Her hand is still in mine, and I keep mine exactly where it is because the last time she stirred, her fingers tightened like she was making sure I hadn't left.
My phone vibrates against my thigh.
I free my left hand carefully and pull the phone out.
The screen says mamma.
She has an instinct for finding me at the worst possible time. When I was a boy, she could find me in any corner of the compound, in any olive grove, in any sulk, before I had a chance to disappear completely.
"mamma."
"Valentino." She takes a breath. "Tell me you are taking care of yourself. Are you sleeping? Eating?"
I almost laugh. I haven't slept in forty hours.
"I am fine, mamma."
"That is not what I asked, figlio mio."
"I am eating."
"What?"
"What?"
"What are you eating? Tell me. Name something."
"Pasta," I say. "This evening. I cooked it."
She is sixty-four years old and does not waste a pause. Since we lost my father, she talks more than she used to, filling every silence before it can settle, as if keeping the conversation going might leave less room for us to feel what is missing.
"How is she?"
"Strong," I say.
"Give her a kiss from me."
I close my eyes.
"mamma—"
"Don't 'mamma' me. Kiss her on the forehead, Valentino. Tell her it's from me. You will do this."
"Yes."
"And one from your aunt."
"Okay."
"We are praying for you. Both of us. Every morning and every evening. And Aria has lit a candle in her room for Amanda, which I suspect is against at least three house rules.”
That gets a smile out of me.
I can picture both of them. Aria lighting candles she probably isn't supposed to have. My mother pretending to be annoyed about it while making sure they never go out.
Aria loves Amanda. My mother loves Aria. The rest happened naturally.
"Valentino mio. You will eat. You will sleep. You will keep Amanda safe. And you will come home to me. In that order."
"In that order."
"Bravo." She says it the same way she did when I was a boy and managed something she'd already decided I could do. "Ti voglio bene, amore."
"Anch'io, mamma."
"Valentino."
"Yes, mamma."
"You did the right thing."
I don't answer.
"Do you hear me?"
"I hear you."
Amanda
I take a breath, open my eyes, and decide this is not me. I am not going to lie here pretending to sleep while fear eats a hole through my stomach.
Valentino's thumb is moving over my knuckles, slow and distracted. I let him do it for one more second, then pull my hand from his and tuck it into the front pocket of the hoodie.
"Why do you still live in Sicily?" I ask.
He blinks once, not expecting that. "What?"
"Sicily. Everyone else is in Chicago. Why are you the one still over here playing—" I wave a hand at the windshield, at Italy, at the entire concept, "Roman holiday with no holiday?"
He looks at me for a long second. "I run the Italian side."
"Run."
"Run."
"That's it? Run? You're going to give me a verb and call it an answer?"
His mouth curves. "I'm in charge of everything the family does on this side of the Atlantic. Business. Relationships. Problems."
"Family interests," I repeat. "Wow. That cleared everything up. Thank you. I feel deeply informed."
"Bella."
"No, seriously, I love this. 'I run the Italian operation.' Such specificity. Such transparency. Truly, the diplomatic corps lost a star when you decided to go into—" I tilt my head. "Whatever the fuck this is."
He turns toward me fully, knees angled, shoulder against the seat, his whole body now pointed in my direction.
"You don't need to know more than that."
Fine.
Noted.
The man has a spare key to every room in my head and won't even let me see the front door of his.
I turn to the front. "Luca."
His green eyes flick to the mirror. He doesn't speak.
"Where are you from?"
"Calabria," he says. "Originally." His accent is low and rough.
"Originally," I echo. "And then?"
"Napoli."
"And now?"
His eyes return to the road. "Now I drive."
I let out something close to a laugh.
"Oh my God, you two are the same person. Did they print you off the same brochure? Tall, Italian, vague.”
I think I see one corner of Luca's mouth move. Barely. A flicker, then gone again, which is apparently all the proof I'm getting that he is human.
Valentino's leg shifts against mine.
"How long have you worked for him?" I ask Luca, nodding toward Valentino without looking at him.
"Long time."
"Do you like it? Naples?"
A long pause. Long enough that I start to think he isn't going to answer. "I don't live there," he says.
"Where do you live?"
Another pause. Shorter this time. "Wherever the work is."
I watch the road for a while.
"Can you please call Vittoria?" I ask.
Valentino's head turns. "Now?"
"No, next Tuesday. I'll pencil it in between the fleeing and the hiding." I hold my palm out. "Yes, now. Please."
He pulls his phone from his jacket and dials without arguing. The line rings twice before Vittoria answers.
"Val?"
"It's me."
"Babe." Relief and worry hit the same word.
My tongue feels thick. I swallow past it. "Did my mom call you?"
The line goes quiet.
"Call me about what?" Vittoria asks carefully.
"About me. About where I am. Did she call you to ask where her daughter is?"
Another pause. Longer this time. "No. She didn't call."
I laugh because what else is left for me to do? "Cool," I say. "That's—yeah. Cool."
"Babe—"
"No, it makes sense. I've been in Italy for almost two weeks, Vee.
Two weeks. She texted me once. Once. To ask if I was okay, which, let's be honest, was probably autocomplete because she didn't even wait for me to respond before she went dark again.
So why would she notice I'm gone? You have to notice someone's there before you can notice they're not.”
My voice is steady. My eyes are burning. I refuse to cry again.
"It's only been a couple of days since you lost your phone," Vittoria says gently. "She might not—"
"She's not going to call, Vee."
The car goes quiet.
Vittoria doesn't argue. She knows. She was there for the missed lunches, the forgotten calls, the birthdays my mother remembered late and from a distance.
"This isn't helping you right now," Vittoria says quietly. "You know that, right? This wound, tonight—"
"You're right." I bite down on everything else. The ache in my chest, the part of me that wanted Vittoria to lie, to say yes, she called, she's worried sick, she's on the next flight. "You're totally right. Bad timing. I'll table it."
"Amanda."
"I'm going to sleep now," I say. "I'm fine."
"Okay." Vittoria's voice goes careful. "I love you."
"Love you too. Goodnight."
I hand the phone back to Valentino without looking at him.
I stare at the ceiling of the car and count the tiny perforations in the fabric. One, two, three, four. Anything but her.
She's not going to call.
I knew that before I asked. Vittoria knew it too. That doesn't make hearing it hurt less.
I shift in my seat and lower my head onto Valentino's lap before I can think better of it.
His thigh tenses under my cheek.
I settle there anyway, my temple against his leg, my body curled sideways on the seat, the seatbelt digging into my hip at an angle I don't care enough to fix.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against my shoulder.
I look up at him.
From this angle, his jaw is a sharp line against the passing headlights. The stubble. The clenched edge of his mouth. The gray at his temples that I have always found unreasonably attractive.
I lick my lips.
Not on purpose. My mouth is dry. Then I remember where my cheek is resting.
His cock stirs against my cheek.
Oh.
My pulse kicks up, a low drumbeat at the base of my throat. I don't move. I hold his gaze from below and watch the precise moment his expression changes. His pupils swallow the dark of his irises. His jaw flexes hard enough that I can hear his teeth grind.
His hand comes down on my jaw, thumb along the hinge, fingers behind my ear. Not turning my face. Just keeping it exactly where it is.
He leans close enough that his breath hits my lips. "If you keep pushing me," he says, voice dropped to something barely above the engine noise, "I'll fuck your pretty mouth in the back of this car. I don't care if a hundred people are watching."
Every nerve in my body lights up at once. A hot wire pulled taut from my chest to the pit of my stomach, vibrating. His thumb presses against the soft skin below my ear, and I can feel my own pulse hammering back at him, telling him everything my mouth isn't saying.
I want to open my lips and press them against the hard ridge of him through the fabric and watch what happens to that iron control he wears like a second skin. I want to find out if he means it.