25. Lucy
Lucy
T hree months after the funeral, a moving van parks out front of the mansion. I follow the stream of men moving through the lower wings until I reach the former Don’s rooms. Boxes are stacked in the hallway, and the movers are carrying them back to the truck one at a time.
I drift deeper inside and stand in the main room.
I remember his father sitting in a big easy chair watching old black-and-white Westerns.
I remember the way he mumbled and tried to change his shoes.
It must’ve been terrible watching his father fall apart like that, knowing it would never get better.
There’s a noise from the bedroom. I look inside and find Adriano cursing to himself as he rifles through the closet. There are still piles of stuff all over the place: old sweaters, folded jeans, boxes of photographs, power cables, and other electronic junk.
“Do you want some help?” I ask, my stomach doing a strange, nervous twist.
He pauses and glances back. He’s wearing the outfit I chose for him. Simple black slacks and a flattering cream sweater. God, he’s so handsome, it’s obscene.
“The fucking movers are already here,” he says, as if I hadn’t walked past them. “I thought I’d have this all finished by today, but—” He looks at the objects still lying in clusters.
“Those guys are busy doing the main room.” I pull over a box and start sorting through the stuff. “What are you keeping? Where are they taking everything?”
“There’s a storage locker. Everything’s going there, and I’ll sort it all out later.”
“Okay, that’s easy then. Should I get rid of the obvious trash?”
He hesitates. Then he nods. “I trust you.”
For a moment, we stand there looking at each other. Our last conversation plays through my head. The stress was breaking him then, and I’m not sure it’s much better now.
But he needs my help. I can set aside my feelings for a little while. Packing is the least I can do.
I get to work. Everything that isn’t worth keeping for later gets tossed in a black garbage bag, while the rest is carefully packed into boxes. Breakables are covered in paper and bubble wrap.
I throw myself into my task. After a half hour, I catch him standing nearby and staring at me with this odd look on his face, like he’s not sure if I’m really there. I smile at him and raise my eyebrows. “Take a picture,” I tell him. “That’ll last longer.”
He laughs. It’s not even funny, but he leans back against the barren bed and holds onto his stomach. I grin at him and wonder if he’s finally gone insane.
“You okay?” I ask when he finally gets it together.
“Yeah, I’m good.” He kneels down next to me. The piles of stuff are mostly gone, but he has the closet emptied out. All that mess is next. “You don’t need to help, you know. I haven’t exactly given you any reason to.”
“Maybe I don’t need a reason.”
“Lucy—”
“We don’t have to do this.” I gently place an old 1988 Phillies World Series mug into one of the boxes. “I get it, you’re busy. You’re fighting a war. You’re running an empire. I’m fine.”
He seems bothered by that. “You don’t have to be. You can be angry.”
“Do you want me to yell at you?”
“Maybe a little bit.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, bud. Not happening.”
“Bud?” His eyes narrow. “I’m not sure I like that.”
“Too bad, pal.” I cross my arms. “Buddy. Chief. Bro.”
He licks his lips, and I catch a glimmer of the old Adriano, the man I first married. The one with the wicked mouth and the darkness. The man who slipped out of his mask and showed me glimpses of who he really is beneath the bespoke suits and the brutality.
But he turns back to the mess. “We should get to work,” he says softly.
I don’t argue. Side by side, we go through everything.
The movers are getting closer and closer, and we only just finish by the time they make it back into the bedroom.
Adriano insists on helping carry out the last few boxes.
I drift after them, watching from a distance as he tips the men generously.
Their enormous moving truck rumbles down the street, and my husband comes back to me, sun drifting through his hair.
He walks up the steps, and I expect him to slip past again. He’ll disappear into his office, and the last hour we spent in companionable silence will fade along with him. I’ll go back to feeling abandoned and worthless.
But instead, he holds out his hand.
I stare at that callused palm. Symbols are tattooed on his knuckles: a cross, a skull, a five-pointed star.
I reach out and awkwardly grip him like we’re old work colleagues.
He pulls me forward. I yelp in surprise as I run into his muscular body. His arms wrap around me, and I tilt my head back to look into his eyes, and that’s when he buries my mouth with his.
Fuck, it’s unexpected. It’s soft and wet and tastes like gum.
And it’s good; it’s so good. It’s the kiss I’ve been craving for months.
The kiss I’ve needed so badly all this time.
I push into that kiss, open my mouth for his tongue, let him invade me, take me, as his arms tighten their grip on my body.
I whimper into him, feeling pathetic and weak and soft, but not caring.
Because this is all I’ve wanted. Him, my husband, back in my arms. Back in my life.
Treating me like I’m a woman worth keeping.
The kiss holds and holds, and he finally breaks it off with a deep breath in through his nose.
“Thank you,” he says.
“I know I’m a great kisser, but no thanks are necessary.”
He squeezes my ass hard. “You know what I mean.”
I lightly brush him away. My cheeks are burning, and my head’s a dizzy mess of lust, but I do have standards. He can’t just disappear for months and suddenly start fondling me again.
A girl needs a little foreplay first.
“I’m here for you, that’s all.”
“I don’t know why.”
I gesture around us. “Because… because I’m your wife. And you need someone to be there for you.”
“You don’t owe me that.” He seems genuinely confused. “This was supposed to be an arrangement.”
My stomach falls. I turn away, wrapping my arms around myself. “I know that. You don’t have to remind me.”
“Wait,” he says, stepping toward me. He grabs my wrist before I can duck inside. “Don’t pull away.”
“I’m the one pulling away?”
“Right now, yes.”
“Hilarious coming from my husband the ghost.”
His jaw flexes. “I know I haven’t been very present for you lately.”
“Understatement.”
“I haven’t been a good man.” His grip on my wrist tightens.
I look down at the line on his jaw. It’s healed now, but there’s still a light white scar left behind.
“The war’s been hard, and being here hasn’t made it easier.
I lost my mother in this house. I lost my father too. But that’s not a good excuse.”
“You really don’t have to explain.”
“Yes, I do.” He moves closer, tugging me into him. I press my hands to his chest, trying to put space between us, but he doesn’t let me go. A cool breeze blows in across the front porch, and a nearby wind chime rattles. “You’ve been patient. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Neither did you.” I stare into his dark eyes. A storm’s brewing in him. “My grandmother pushed you into this war.”
“She’s not the reason I’m fighting it.” He leans closer. His mouth brushes my neck. “I could give you up. That would end things.”
A chill runs down my spine. Just from the wind? “You could do that.”
“We both know I can’t.”
“Adriano—”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have disappeared on you these last few months.”
“You left me roses. You bought me clothes.”
“You made me espresso.”
“You watered my plants.”
“I dreamed about you every fucking night.”
I bury my face in his chest. I’m breathing fast, my stomach a mess of fear and elation. “Then why didn’t you just come to bed?”
“I couldn’t. I tried not to. But there were nights when I sat and watched you sleep.”
“You watched me sleep?” I close my eyes and bite my lip. “That’s actually creepy.”
“I know.” His arms tighten around me. “I don’t care.”
“I don’t either.”
“Just give me more time. I’m coming around. Finally emptying out the last of my father’s room feels like I’m getting there.”
I nod into him. I hate this. I wish we didn’t need to have this conversation, but I’ve been a mess without him. I can’t pretend anymore like I’m keeping myself together.
“I’m here when you’re ready.”
He tilts my chin up and kisses me. It’s slow and gentle, but just as hungry. I’d throw myself at him right now if he asked me to. I’d let him take me against the front door. Screw the neighbors. But I know that’s just sad and desperate.
“Soon, baby. Very soon.”
He kisses me again. Then he releases me and goes back into the house. I’m left on the porch hugging myself, feeling like that couldn’t have just happened. My husband couldn’t have kissed me, held me, and talked like he actually cares about me.
I touch my lips. They’re still warm from his.