Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  I nodded. What could I do anyway?

  Paola gave one of her signature harrumphs and followed her fellow officers out. I shut the apartment door with a loud snick behind them, resting my forehead against the cool wood door.

  Fear and terror clawed at the back of my throat. My shoulders trembled.

  What had happened to Grace? How could I have let it happen? I was the worst aunt in the history of auntness.

  Wiping my raw cheeks, I walked into the living room to the left of the front door and crossed to one of the tall windows. Inspector Paola emerged from the building into the piazza below, pushing through the crowd of cameras and waving off reporters. She climbed into a police car which instantly sped off, lights flashing.

  She was gone. I could fall apart now.

  Turning, I collapsed into a chair, a sob stumbling from my lips. Curling into a ball, I wrapped my arms around my face, shoulders shaking in earnest.

  My phone binged. Blearily through my tears, I glanced down at it resting on the end table beside my chair.

  My mom texting again.

  Five more bings followed in rapid succession.

  My older sister. Another brother.

  My family was understandably frantic, peppering me with a nearly constant spray of questions they needed answers to righthisminute.

  Ugh. I was in the process of falling apart here. Couldn’t they understand that? No one loved their family more than me. Seriously. We were like peanut butter and chocolate, always better together.

  But this situation . . .

  Panic edged in again, threatening to pull me down. I could barely hold on to my own worry and grief, much less shoulder theirs.

  If only I had stayed awake . . .

  There were so few clues. Just the bloody handprint and Grace gone.

  No sign of forced entry. Nothing else disturbed or suspicious.

  Jeff and Jen’s apartment was on the second floor of an old seventeenth-century building. No balconies. And given the height of Italian ceilings, the apartment windows were a solid thirty-feet off the ground.

  Nearly all the windows in the apartment had been open at the time, letting in the cool morning air. No screens or bars on any of them. Why would you need them? To get inside the apartment through a window, someone would have had to rappel from above or bring in a firetruck ladder.

  But somehow, someone had.

  I had spent hours wracking my brain, trying to remember every single detail.

  Grace had come into my room that morning, right? I hadn’t hallucinated that fact or dreamed it, had I?

  I had been so tired from jet lag . . . not that it was an excuse for falling back asleep. Nothing could ever excuse me not being there for Grace.

  Bing. Bing.

  I swiped at my tears. Hiccupped.

  Bzzzzzz.

  The doorbell. I jumped at the sound.

  Just . . . no!

  It couldn’t be Inspector Paola. She was at the press conference.

  So who else?

  A news reporter? No, thank you.

  Cat Lady?

  I groaned. Yes. That had to be it. She had been drifting around the fringes of the investigation, asking questions.

  If I was ignoring my own mother, I had zero intention of speaking with her.

  Bing. Bing. Bing.

  Texts again. My mom. Two more sisters.

  Please, just a few minutes.

  I simply needed a moment to grieve, hyperventilate . . . have a panic attack or three.

  I hiccupped and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ancient beamed ceiling, letting the tears fall.

  Bzzz. Bzzz.

  Go away, I mentally pleaded.

  A polite knock. Followed by a longer bzzzzzzz.

  And then . . . bingbingbingbingbing.

  I reached out and silenced my phone. Not forever. Just for five minutes . . .

  I gasped and rubbed my wet cheeks on the hem of my t-shirt, trying to gather my Coping Mode back together enough to . . . cope.

  There was a source of help. I had contemplated it more seriously at three a.m. when the panic attacks and hysteria had become almost unbearable, the silence stifling.

  I could get online, send a message. I wouldn’t need to start with Tennyson or Branwell. Who knew if they were in Italy anyway?

  I could just message Chiara. She had always been a good friend, despite everything, and she had connections within law enforcement. Even if she were still upset with me, she would help find a little girl.

  I didn’t blame her for siding with her brother when I made that final break with Tennyson. That’s always the problem with a broken relationship. You lose so much more than simply a boyfriend.

  Bzzzzzzz.

  I had fallen out of romantic love with Tennyson long before I summoned the courage to rip myself away from his family.

  I had loved them all. I still did.

  Bzzz. Bzzz.

  If only Branwell . . .

  I stopped right there, a different sort of ache lodging in my chest.

  I paused inside the doorway into the kitchen. I’d come from Tennyson and the hospital, knowing I’d find Branwell here. I couldn’t leave without seeing him one last time.

  He sat crumpled in a chair, elbows on the table in front of him, gloved hands in his long hair, hazel eyes intent as I walked into the room—

  “So you’re leaving?” His low voice rumbled through the gloom.

  “Yeah.” I swallowed. “We all know it’s for the best.”

  “Do we?” He leaned back, hands still threaded in his hair. Brows drawn in disapproval.

  I knew they wanted me to stay. All of them. Not for me, per se, but for how I calmed Tennyson. By leaving . . . I had failed them all. This clan that had somehow become my own.

  But Tennyson wasn’t the brother I loved. And I was so tired of living a lie. Why did my heart have to latch on to the one man I could never have?

  “I just wanted to say goodbye,” I whispered.

  Silence. Our gazes tangled.

  “Well.” His voice carried through the hush. “Goodbye then.” Words so quiet.

  I nodded, throat thick and burning.

  “Goodbye, Branwell.”

  I drank him in. One last look before turning and walking out the door . . .

  I shook the memory off.

  They didn’t want to see me. I knew that.

  For my part, seeing any of them again would be . . . catastrophic. I had worked so hard to move on.

  But for Grace . . .

  We had to find her. And the D’Angelo brothers could find clues hidden from the rest of us.

  Tennyson’s GUT focused on near-future emotions. Dante saw the past but only the dead-and-gone past, and I refused to even entertain the thought that Grace was dead.

  Which left Branwell. His GUT could ‘hear’ if someone else had been in the apartment, if Grace had said something.

  I forced down the niggling voice that whispered I was focusing on the brother I wanted to see. That Dante and Tennyson could be helpful too, if only to give hope or crush it altogether.

  Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

  Knock. Knock.

  Okay, okay. Got it. Falling apart time was over.

  I could do this. Be strong. Answer questions. Find Grace.

  I was the eternal optimist—the one who coped in a crisis.

  I stood up. Deep breath.

  Swallowing, I walked to entryway, mentally preparing myself to face Cat Lady without being too snippy.

  I threw the door open, upset words dying on my lips.

  Oh. My.

  It was as if my thoughts had summoned him.

  Branwell . . . standing on my stoop, hand raised to knock one more time, eyes flared wide.

  Looking every inch as potent as my memory painted him.

  Had I conjured him?

  Tall. Sun-eclipsing huge. A six foot four mountain of wide-shoulders and barrel chest.

  A man-giant.

  He was someho
w bigger than I remembered. As if my mind couldn’t fully recollect him all at once, but only as snippets of the whole—dark hair and beard, gloved hands, thick arms, trunk-like legs, intent eyes—

  But to see all of him so suddenly . . .

  My brain shut down. Literally. My coping ability shattering.

  Because I did exactly what my heart had wanted to do for more years than I could quickly count—

  I threw myself onto him.

  Sobbing. Weeping.

  Dumping my sorrow on his broad chest.

  I wrapped my arms around him and held on. As if the entire world swamped me under, and he was the lifeline rescuing me from a sea of sorrow.

  He was here. He had come.

  Somehow. Someway.

  I was too overwhelmed by Grace’s disappearance—the endless police questions, the accusatory looks, my guilt, the horror of not knowing—to ask how. How he had found me. How he had gotten into the palazzo.

  Surely some numb part of my brain noted his shock at my hug. The oomph of air swooshing from his lungs.

  Branwell kept his life carefully structured, all with the express purpose of avoiding accidental physical contact. I knew this. I did.

  No one touched him. Not without his clear permission and some planning.

  But . . .

  He was . . . here. When my entire world had shattered, Branwell had come to help.

  I cried and cried. Ugly. Noisy. Totally undone.

  Dimly, I noted him scooting us back into the apartment and closing the door, dropping something at his feet. And then tentatively, his arms came around me. Gentle. Kind.

  And then . . . tighter.

  He engulfed me. Surrounding. Warmth. Security.

  Holding me with a fierce tenderness that caused my throat to ache for an entirely different reason.

  It was just so typically Branwell to be the one to show up. He had always been like that. The quiet guy who worked selflessly behind the scenes to make things happen. The unsung hero.

  And he was holding me. The perfect height to tuck my head under his chin. Big enough that my arms had to reach to surround him.

  I brutally repressed a comparison with Tennyson’s shorter, more wiry frame . . .

  How could something so very wrong feel so impossibly right?

  Oh Branwell . . . why couldn’t it have been you?

  I continued to sob, a stream of stuttering, “You c-c-came. Y-you came . . . youcameyoucame . . .” leaving my mouth.

  Not my best moment.

  Seeing Branwell required mental preparation and fortitude.

  Or, barring that, a lack of crisis, an hour’s forewarning and a shot of vodka.

  I had nothing.

  I hugged him tighter, afraid if I let go, I would crumble into pieces. My brain had short-circuited and the emotional part of me that insisted this man was mine, mine, mine ran amok.

  I hiccupped and sniffled, breathing him in.

  Warm, clean male with a hint of forest pine.

  Yep. Still crying. Clinging to him like plastic wrap.

  Pull yourself together, Lucy. This guy never has been, nor will he ever be, your man.

  Let him go.

  Literally and figuratively.

  Snuffling, I told my arms to release him, to unwrap myself.

  They stubbornly refused. Of course.

  Granted, getting Branwell out of my system had proved a near Sisyphean task over the years.

  Focusing, I forced my arms to relax their hold and took a small step back, pausing to rub the large wet spot on his chest. He clasped my upper arms in his hands.

  Naturally, he wore his signature gloves—butter-soft brown leather, tightly fitted with rune stitched edges. The kind of expensive, high-end gloves you see in shop windows in Venice. The gloves disappeared under a long-sleeved shirt—this one off-white with blue-embroidered edges. Worn hip-hugging jeans and heavy leather boots rounded out his look.

  His beard lifted as he swallowed and looked down at me. Golden hazel eyes met mine, lighter than I remembered in his face.

  Oh boy.

  “H-hey.” I managed a weak smile. “N-nice to see you, Branwell. Uhmm, in case you missed it, I really appreciate you taking the time to . . . v-visit.”

  A faint smile ghosted over his lips.

  “Nice to see you too, Lucy.”

  I almost closed my eyes at the sound of his voice. That deep rumble I remembered all too well.

  How could I still be so gone on this man?

  “Sorry I lost it,” I whispered, sucking in a stuttery breath and dropping my eyes to his chest. “It’s been an awful twenty-four hours.”

  “I saw the news. It looked like you could use some help.” He tightened his hold on my upper arms, waiting until I raised my gaze to meet his. “We’re going to find her, Lucy. We’ve got this for you.”

  I nodded, throat tight again.

  After a day of recriminations—my own self-inflicted ones and Paola’s thinly veiled accusations— I hadn’t realized how much I needed someone on my side.

  At what point would I cry myself out?

  I stepped away from him and snagged a tissue from the entryway table, wiping my eyes and face. And then gave up being ladylike and blew my nose vigorously.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noted his gaze skimming me, cataloging differences and similarities.

  He looked the same. Dark curly hair pulled back into a loose bun. Beard thick but neatly trimmed.

  Seriously. The man was the walking, talking definition of lumbersexual.

  Me . . . same red hair and freckles. Body a little curvier, face slightly more angular.

  I glanced down and realized I was wearing a green t-shirt with the words ‘Kiss Me I’m Irish’ on the front over ratty, faded yoga pants. I had been so overwhelmed with everything, I hadn’t even bothered to look at what I had on.

  Add to that, every last inch of my fair, freckled skin was red and splotchy from crying. Hair a tangled mess and not a drop of make-up.

  Basically, every man’s fantasy . . . if said man were into the psychotic hobo look, which I was pretty sure Branwell wasn’t.

  Of course, he would see me like this—

  Why are we women like this? I was in crisis. My sweet Gracie was missing. What did it matter how I looked?

  Besides, gorgeously salon-perfect or filthy homeless waif . . . it didn’t make a difference in the end. Branwell could be madly in love with me, and it would alter nothing.

  Tennyson and Afghanistan and a thousand other hurts and sorrows stood firmly between us. Nothing would ever change that fact.

  “Tennyson send you?” I asked, giving my cheeks one last swipe.

  He nodded. “It seemed like my GUT could be of some use. So tell me what happened.”

  Ah, there was the Branwell I knew so well. Blunt. To the point. A man of few words. The guy who held his emotions and thoughts tight.

  “Grace just . . . disappeared,” I whispered. “No one knows what happened to her.”

  “Where did you last see her?”

  “In my bedroom.” I gestured down the hall. “She crawled into bed with me, and I-I fell back asleep.” I hiccupped and looked at him, eyes surely full of despair. “How could I fall back asleep, Branwell? How could I abandon my sweet Gracie like that—”

  “Stop, Lucy.” Tone stern. “Stop. You did nothing wrong. Falling asleep with a little girl in your arms . . . you can’t blame yourself.”

  “But, if I hadn’t—”

  “No. No more what ifs.” Branwell shook his head. “The Lucy Snow I know would understand that self-reproach won’t find Grace any faster.” His hazel eyes drilled me.

  My shoulders heaved at his words. It was true. I needed to pull myself back together. Focus on what I could fix and let go of the things that I couldn’t.

  “Okay.” I straightened my shoulders and dabbed at my cheeks again. “After I fell asleep, the police think Grace went back to her own bedroom before she—” My voice broke.
/>   “Got it. Will you show me?”

  I bobbed my head and walked down the hall, Branwell at my heels.

  I motioned him into Grace’s bedroom. Like so much of the house, Grace’s room was white with pops of color—white dresser, bed and nightstand, offset by bright matted prints and textiles. My sister-in-law clearly loved minimalist decor.

  Branwell’s large body dwarfed the space, towering over Grace’s child-sized furniture. He turned in a slow circle, studying the room. He went uncannily still when he noticed the handprint on the dresser.

  “That is—” He pointed at the bloody handprint.

  “Terrifying.” I finished on a whisper.

  Branwell met my gaze. “We’re going to find her, Lucy. Give me the rundown.”

  I blinked back tears again as I told him everything. Finding Grace gone, the paltry evidence, Inspector Paola and her accusing, threatening words.

  Branwell nodded his head at the appropriate times, grunted occasionally. He prowled the room as I talked. Studying everything intently but touching nothing. He paused with his eyes on the bare twin bed—white washed wood frame with a bright pink and blue comforter. Well, there had once been a comforter on it.

  “The police took anything that appeared disturbed as evidence,” I said.

  Branwell turned his head toward the dresser, looking pointedly at the ruby-red handprint again. Just seeing it caused my heart rate to spike.

  “Looking for blood and other DNA evidence?”

  “That was my assumption.”

  “What did they take?”

  I scanned the room. “The bedding, obviously. Some clothes, Grace’s stuffed elephant, a Little Mermaid music box. Things like that.”

  Branwell pursed his mouth, thinking. “I’ll chat with Chiara and see about getting access to those items. They might prove useful.”

  He didn’t say anything else for a moment, merely continued to study the room.

  Seeing his huge body in motion about did me in. The careful way he moved, hands clasped behind his back. The quiet strength radiating from him.

  How I had missed him.

  Two years. Two long years of trying to move past this amazing man.

  Destroyed in less than five minutes.

  Nine

  Portland, Oregon

  Six years earlier

  Branwell

  Branwell, you want to come with us?” Tennyson poked his head into my bedroom, lifting an eyebrow at the textbooks scattered across my desk. “You have to take a break from studying sometime, you know.”