Chapter 24
Lucia
Before sunrise, I stand barefoot in Dante’s kitchen, hair in a messy knot, eyes burning from almost no sleep. Each time I closed them, I pictured Dante disappearing with that woman in his arms. Throughout the night, I told myself it doesn’t matter. Dante can associate with anyone he wants.
As quickly as denials rushed through my head, a large, imaginary knife stabbed into my chest painfully enough that I had to sit up and breathe through it.
Sleep was hopeless, so I threw off the blanket that commenced my shameful act hours ago and snuck into Dante’s kitchen to help myself to a mug of expensive coffee.
Now I pour freshly squeezed orange juice into a plastic cup. The citrus scent soothes my spinning thoughts, but the occasional question still seeps through the cracks. Where did Dante go? Why did he leave? And most importantly, who was the woman he left with?
Most of my questions are inquisitive, but some are worrying. Dante hasn’t left Camille overnight once in the past week. He wakes her every morning and tucks her in every night. If he doesn’t return soon, he’ll miss the first half of theirroutine.
As I place the orange juice in the refrigerator to cool, a knock sounds at the door. Except it isn’t a knock. It’s heavier, more a boot hitting wood than a hand.
My heart jumps into my throat as an unexpected parcel of hope streaks across my face. Far too eagerly, I dry my hands with a tea towel and then hurry to the door. When I open it, the face I’m anticipating doesn’t reflect back at me. Marco isn’t as tall as Dante. His hair is lighter, and his eyes aren’t as intense. Although he belongs in the category of handsome, I’m doubtful they’re related by blood.
When Marco’s eyes flick to the left, I crank my neck in the same direction.
Leaning against the hallway wall is Dante.
Or what’s left of him.
He looks wrecked. His clothes hang crooked and his posture is broken, but it’s his eyes that lower the imaginary knife to my stomach. They’re lost. Wholly and without constraint.
“What happened?” I ask Marco.
He shrugs, but before he can speak, Dante drawls out, “Lucia…” Even though his greeting is a drunken slur, or worse, I smile, happy he’s still coherent enough to recognize my voice.
A startled squeak escapes me when he steps forward and stumbles. I catch him before he hits the floor and instinctively wrap my arms around him. He stands a foot taller than me and weighs at least a hundred pounds more, but since he doesn’t put all his weight on me, I’m not terrified of being crushed underneath him.
Like that would ever be terrifying.
“I’ve got him,” I tell Marco.
The last thing I need is his heavy boots stomping through the apartment and waking Camille before I can get Dante cleaned up and out of sight. She doesn’t need to see him like this, and I don’t want anything to steal the joy I feel each evening and morning when she greets him with euphoria. Those times are the highlights of my day.
“You can go.”
Marco hesitates, but I hit him with a glare that leaves no room forargument. After a curt nod, he returns to the hallway he guards at all hours of the day and night when Dante isn’t here.
The instant the door closes, Dante curls his body around my back. His chin brushes the top of my head as his hands land low on my stomach. He breathes in so deeply he chuckles when strands of my hair tickle his nostrils.
“You smell like me,angelo. I like that.”
I swallow hard when I feel him thicken as I guide him to the bathroom. He reeks of alcohol and a floral perfume I pretend not to notice. My allergies keep me from using perfumes that aggravate my sinuses. Floral scents irritate my sinuses, so I never wear them.
After helping Dante onto a chair I assume was placed there for the females in his life, I walk over to the massive walk-in shower and turn on the water. I considered putting him straight to bed, but the front of his shirt is marked with a stain that looks an awful lot like vomit.
“Can you stand?” I ask, twisting back to face him.
He watches me for several heart-thrashing seconds before he jerks up his chin.
“Okay. Good.” I nudge my head to the hallway. “While you shower, I’ll turn down your bed.”
As I begin to leave, his hand shoots out to grab my wrist. His hold isn’t firm. I could pull away at any moment, yet it’s clear he doesn’t want me to go.
“Stay,” he says, reinforcing my thoughts.