Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I lay back against the pillows, hands behind my head, staring up at the cracked ceiling. We had never lived in a house like this—small, cozy, with walls too close together, forcing intimacy. I never shared a room with my brothers. My father's sense of pride in providing a house large enough for us each to have our own space eclipsed the childhood experience of growing up together in close quarters and the comfort that comes with it.
Solitude is something I was forced to grow comfortable with, not something that comes naturally. The need to have my brothers close is a secret I keep. Maybe they feel the same way. All I know is that no woman has ever come between us, and nothing in this business has ever challenged our unity.
But Antonio made a unilateral decision tonight, one he should have discussed with us before communicating, and for the first time, I can see how Aemelia might have already created a fissure in the foundation we’ve built.
But it’s only a fissure if I disagree.
And I don’t. Maybe the fissure comes from watching a woman, one who’s barely been in our lives, change my brother. When I think of Antonio’s gentle hands in her hair, I let out a ragged breath. That question Aemelia asked earlier about what we would have been like if we hadn’t been born into this life still lingers in my mind.
There’s no walking away so what’s the point in thinking about it.
Aemelia stirs, then whimpers. It’s not loud enough to wake my brothers, but it slides through me like a blade. She whimpers again, her hands gripping the sheets, her feet shifting under the blankets. She’s having a nightmare. I push up to my knees and crawl from my mattress into the gap between her and Antonio.
Her hair is still tangled, despite his careful hands, and I push it back from her face. “Aemelia,” I whisper, my lips close to her ear. “You’re dreaming. It’s just a dream.”
She moans, twisting, her eyelids fluttering frantically. “Aemelia,” I say again, firmer this time. “Wake up.”
Her eyes shoot open, wide, and unfocused before settling on me. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “You were dreaming.”
I stroke her cheek gently, her skin impossibly soft beneath my calloused fingers. When her eyes brim with tears, my body reacts with instinct. I tug her against me, holding her close.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s nothing. It’s gone.”
“Luca?” she whispers, small and unsure.
“Yeah, kitten. It’s me.” Even as I say it, I expect her to pull away. Instead, she burrows against my body, like she’s seeking warmth and safety, her tears bleeding through my thin shirt. I hold her, trying not to think about how I might be part of the nightmare still haunting her.
I stroke her hair, adjusting so I’m lying on the edge of her mattress and she’s pressed against me. She won’t stop crying, and I don’t know how to fix it. When I was a kid, my mama used to sing a lullaby, one I loved, so I sing La Simizina as softly as I can, like a whisper, the words brushing against the crown of her head, and she listens, and her breathing slows. She quiets in my arms.
When I’m finished, she whispers. “What does it mean?”
I think for a moment, then admit, “I never thought about the words much,” I say. “My Italian is rusty.”
“Mine, too,” she murmurs, her voice small but steady.
“Are you okay now?”
“Yeah,” she whispers. I expect her to pull away, but she doesn’t. Instead, her grip on my shirt tightens, like she’s anchoring herself to me. I duck to look at her more closely, and when our eyes meet, a frisson of electricity runs along the length of my spine. She’s so tiny in my arms. Delicate. A beautiful rose on the brink of blooming. Awareness is a river of lava, burning everything in its path. I want this girl with a fierceness that could obliterate universes, but it’s wrong. She’s young enough to be my daughter, if I’d married when I was supposed to. Her father is my generation, a friend who turned into the worst kind of enemy. And yet, she’s a woman in body and spirit. Strong and resilient with a soft vulnerability that makes me ache to be a better man. I want to kiss her soft lips, feel her lithe body against mine, and discover the sweetness Antiono described for myself. I want to chase away the green-eyed monster that squats in my stomach at the idea of this woman with my brother and not me.
“Aemelia.” Her name drips from my lips like sweet wine, and she shivers in my arms. I draw the blanket over her, and as I pull her closer, her mouth presses to the corner of mine.