“Then how can you say you love me?”
“No. I said I might. I said I don’t know. I only know I need you with me.” He didn’t flinch this time when he used the word need. In fact, he leaned in and set his hand on her cheek. Through the leather of his glove, she felt the warmth of his hand. “Tell me what you need to come home with me. Make the deal, Bella. Tell me what it will take.”
“And you’ll give me whatever I want?”
His eyes flashed back and forth again, as if he were trying to read her thoughts. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
A furrow emerged between his brows and deepened. “Power?”
She wanted so very much more than power. She wanted him, the man inside all this cold stone. The man he might have been if he’d lived a different life.
But in this moment, for now, that answer would do. A deal between them was a paltry foundation for a relationship, but with this man, it might be for the best. It served to protect her while he protected himself.
“Yes. I don’t want to be only your ornament or your bedmate. I won’t be your cook or housemaid. I want something of my own.”
“Something like what?” His expression relaxed; making deals was comfortable to him—and probably suggested he was winning.
“I don’t know yet. Something that’s mine, something I can do. Something that matters. When I figure that out, you help me get it. And I want my father taken care of—give him the stake to open his own shop, like the one he had in Firenze.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but Mirabella was on a roll now, and she’d thought of something else, perhaps the most important of her demands. She put up her finger to keep him quiet. “And I want you to talk to me and tell me of your business—all the parts of it. I want you to listen to what I have to say.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
She’d known he’d say that, but she set her jaw and glared up at him. “Then no. I won’t come with you.”
His hand dropped from her face. “Bella, what I do … you don’t want to hear about it.”
“Don’t tell me what I want or don’t want.” She pushed at his chest. “You cut my uncle’s hand off right in front of me. Do you think I’d be surprised at anything you do?”
“I want my home to be a place I can set all that aside. I don’t want to talk about it over dinner. I want you to be …” He stopped and closed his mouth so tightly she heard his teeth grind.
She put her fingers to the twitching knot at his jaw. “Be what?”
In response, he only shook his head. But there was more than that simple gesture for her to interpret, because his whole face seemed to shatter, and suddenly he was raw emotion—and what she saw was pain and desperation. It was crashing, crushing need.
In a rush, Mirabella understood everything. He needed her not for sex, or even simple companionship.
She was solace. That was the thing he couldn’t say, the deep, aching part of him he couldn’t reveal. He was desperately alone and unhappy. She’d eased that for him, and he wanted her near.
He did love her. He simply didn’t understand it, or trust it. Because he didn’t feel worthy of it.
With a great, deep breath, he caught his composure, and that glimpse into his bleeding soul closed. He was cool again when he said, “I will stake your father’s shop. When you find the thing that is yours, I will help you get it. I will marry you if you want it. But I will not bring my work home, Bella. No.”
Her impish nature prodded her to point out that he lived where he worked, so he could hardly help but bring his work home. But occasionally Mirabella was, in fact, capable of restraint, and she exercised it now. Rather than tease him, she held out her hand in the still narrow space between them. “I agree to the terms.”
He stared down at her hand, then back to her eyes. “You do? You’ll come with me? To stay?”
Utterly charmed by his shock and uncertainty, she smiled and lifted her hand higher. In English, she said, “Now we shake, yes?”
“No.” He pushed her hand away, cupped his hands around her face—he was still wearing gloves—and kissed her.
The first time Paolo had kissed her, he’d done so unreservedly, and Mirabella had been struck by the passion in him. Every time he’d kissed her had been the same. Whatever it was inside him that made him keep aloof, whatever struggle he might undertake to open himself even a crack, he dispensed with it before he came in and covered her mouth with his. What she got was an avid, hot-blooded man who ached for her and didn’t seem to care that she knew it—or if he cared, he was helpless to hold back.
Either way, it was immensely arousing.
He kissed her that way now, only there was more. The new deal they’d struck—it occurred to her briefly to wonder how it affected the old deal—had given him something he truly needed, and he poured that need into her through that kiss.
His hands gripped her head, pushed the kerchief back, tangled in her hair. Faintly, she tasted the copper of blood, but whatever he’d bitten when she’d punched him didn’t seem to bother him now. His tongue writhed in her mouth, and when she brought her own to meet it he groaned, but not as if in pain—it was desperation and need, and he delved all the deeper as she danced with him. His hunger pulled a moan from deep within her as her body clenched and throbbed, intensifying the ache she’d already felt between her legs, in her breasts. He would hurt her if he touched her in those places now, yet the craving in her for that touch was keen nonetheless.
Lifting her arms, Mirabella took his hat and tossed it away so she could push his silky locks through her fingers and tousle those loose curls at the top of his head. He really was a handsome man, balancing on the thin thread between beautiful and rugged. Angel and demon. Prince and beast.
He dropped his hands from her face, gripped her hips, lifted her with sudden force and plopped her on the drainboard, pushing her legs apart and nesting his body between them. When she felt him gathering up her skirt, exposing her legs, she broke free of the kiss and pushed back.
“Paolo, no. My blood is here.”
He chuckled darkly and continued clawing at her skirt, until she dropped her hands on his and got his attention again.
“Paolo.”
Panting and flushed, he gave her an impatient look. “You think I’m squeamish about blood? You know I am not. I don’t care that it’s your time. I need you.”
“I care. I’m …” Her words faltered. Though there were few things she was shy about, this was one of them. It was a deeply personal thing, and a burden he couldn’t possibly understand. Even now, when she’d been relieved to see her blood start, it was still an onerous and painful experience. “It hurts, to have this blood.”
On the first day, like today, she was quite sore between her legs, as if she’d been kicked there. The next days, she would be sore inside, the pain steadily increasing, until late in the third day, when the cramps were so sharp and heavy that each breath hurt, and she bled so much she sometimes felt faint. On the fourth and last day, the bleeding and pain were both much less until it was finally over.
And the cycle began again.
It was something she’d grown used to, of course; it had happened every month for several years, and would keep happening every month for many more. But familiarity and expectation made it no less a burden.
He frowned. “You’re hurting?” Very gently, he lifted her from the drainboard and set her on the floor. “I didn’t know it was painful.”
“Now you do. For me, sometimes it is very painful.”
She could see a riot of questions in his eyes, but he asked none of them. Instead, he put a hand to her cheek again.
Before he could speak, the apartment door opened. From their vantage at the sink, the door blocked the view of the person who’d come in, and vice versa. But of course, it was her father who said, “Good evening, sweetheart.”
Warily, he peeked around the door and added, “And Don Romano. Good eve
ning, sir. I saw your carriage on the street.”
Paolo took a step back. “Good evening, Luciano. How are you?” He bent to pick up the hat she’d tossed away.
He had an excellent voice, deep and soft, almost musical when there was no malice in his words. When there was, his tone remained deep and soft but gained a rasp and sharp edges, the rumble of a dangerous predator. Either way, she liked it best in Italian, with his Sicilian accent looping around each syllable. Italian was a beautiful, comforting language, but Sicilian—a dialect that was more than mere accent—added flourishes, like a decorative stitching in satin.
Embracing an impulse, Mirabella pulled the dislodged kerchief from her hair and said, “Paolo has come to share our meal with us, Pappa.”
Both men looked at her in shock.
“He has?” her father asked
Paolo stared at her. She stared back. Then he blinked and said, “Yes. I hope I don’t impose.”
“No, no!” her father said. “We don’t have much, but we’re always happy to share. You’ve lately been very kind to Mira, and to me as well. More than once, your table has fed us.”
Mirabella heard the limit of his gratitude in the word ‘lately,’ and Paolo heard it, too—she saw the little twitch of a smile she was coming to understand so well.
“Take your coats off, both of you,” she said, “and sit. I’ll make the food.”
With that, Mirabella turned, feeling fairly smug that she’d managed to set Paolo Romano so firmly back on his heels.
XVII
Mirabella’s father purchased a paper sack of roasted chestnuts from a Central Park vendor, and they made their way to the pond, where dozens of people were skating. Since she’d moved into Paolo’s home, she and her father hadn’t spent much time together. She didn’t feel judged; it wasn’t her father’s nature to judge. But she did feel an unfamiliar and unpleasant sense of distance growing between them.
Her father didn’t judge her, but that didn’t mean he liked the choice she’d made.
On this Sunday afternoon, a rare time of leisure for him, she’d asked him to spend the day with her, to travel uptown to the park, and other places in the city that made Christmas festive. Little Italy put up decorations and made merry, too, but it was a different, more subdued merriment, carried on by people who generally had little to celebrate.
There was a holiday here in America, called ‘Thanksgiving,’ which the whole city had recently celebrated, and even Little Italy had managed to make a feast. Paolo put on a large buffet and welcomed all comers to the parlor of the Little Italy Community Society. Their guests had been a rough bunch, bedraggled and for the most part unmannered. But they’d been mainly orphans and other discards of society, without a chance to have more or learn better.
That day, watching Paolo and the patient, truly kind, if still aloof, way he treated the humble people who came to eat at his table, Mirabella knew she could fall in love with this man who’d claimed her.
Her father had joined them for that meal, and she thought he might have warmed a bit more to the don, but not enough to accept the help Mirabella had negotiated for him.
Now, they two found a spot on a bench near the skaters and watched while they munched on chestnuts.
The cold of the early December day was brisk but not punishing. A bright sun tamed the claws of the occasional breeze. The temperature had stayed below freezing—occasionally, in the nights, far below—and ponds all through the city had been frozen solid for more than a week.
Mirabella had never been ice skating, but she thought she might like to try someday. Not with her father, however, whose grace was all in his hands. Watching the couples skating arm in arm, she decided she wanted Paolo to skate with her.
“Shall we practice English?” she asked.
Her father sighed and then nodded. He didn’t enjoy learning their new language either.
“Do you think of the … place Paolo told?” she asked. She was better at English than her father, but she knew her words weren’t really right. Learning a new language was a series of frequent frustrations and occasional celebrations. It took a force of will to keep trying and improving. Now that she’d asked the question, she realized it was probably not the best topic to struggle through with unfamiliar words.
Her father grunted a ‘Yes,’ and stuffed another nut in his mouth before she could press him for an answer. Mirabella knew it was the topic as much as the language that made him brusque.
He didn’t like her choice to go with Paolo, and he didn’t like the deal she’d struck to help him get his own shop started. Mirabella felt no guilt or shame for that deal at all. Such trades were the best way to reach Paolo, and it gave her a chance to help her father and herself in this world that made few chances for anyone. She felt some comfort in the transaction as well—relationships were easier to negotiate when the terms were clear, especially when complicated emotions were involved.
“You are stubborn, Pappa,” she said and plucked a chestnut from the bag. She peeled the hard shell away to reveal the soft meat. She’d never had these nuts until the week before, when Paolo had brought her to see the uptown Christmas decorations. They were warm, sweet, and meaty, with a faint hint of something gently spicy, like cinnamon.
“Non sono testardo,” he said, abandoning English before they’d made a good start. “Not stubborn. Worried. You know how I worry. I don’t know how I can trust the don, for you or for me. What if he changes his mind? Where will either of us be then?”
“He won’t change his mind, Pappa. He made a deal.” This was why making deals was a comfort. A promise was based on faith. A bargain was concrete: something offered and something gained.
Her father answered that with a scoff and a grumble.
She set her hand on his arm. “Pappa, please.”
He gave her a deep look. “You are so like your mother. Sometimes I watch the way you are, the things you do, and see the past coming back to be lived again.”
Disappointment shaped his words, and Mirabella felt compelled to remind him, “You loved Mamma.”
“With all my heart, I did. But Mira, you know the trouble her nature brought her, and us. I’ve never pretended with you.”
He was right; he’d never tried to make her mother seem anything more or less than she was—and Mirabella remembered enough to know for herself. The mother she remembered had made mistakes, certainly. But she’d lived fully, and on her own terms.
“I know. But my life is not hers relived. I make my own choices and my own life. Besides, her life was good. She had you, didn’t she? The life she lived brought her to you.”
He smiled. “It did. For a time.”
“The way she died had nothing to do with who she was. She got an infection.”
“True.” He set the chestnuts on the bench between them and returned his focus to the skaters.
Mirabella looked the same way. One couple seemed especially skilled, moving arm in arm, turning and twisting, truly dancing on the ice. “Mamma would have loved this,” she murmured.
“She would have. She would be on that ice right now, not bothering to learn to keep her feet, but trying at once to spin like that girl there.” He sighed and set a hand on his chest. “You know, you say who she was had nothing to do with how she died, and yes, that is true. It was an infection, an accident. But also—she took you out in a rainstorm to dance barefoot in the puddles. That was what killed her—dancing barefoot in dirty water. That was your mother, a perfect moment of who she was. Full of fire and impulse, flying through life heedless of the dangers around her. She felt everything as keenly as if she were born with her heart exposed. Anger—oh, she could rage. Happiness—she practically burst with it. Sorrow—there were days she couldn’t get out of bed, she was so sad, for reasons neither she nor I could name. Love—when she loved, it was a wild, vivid thing that consumed. Yes, I loved her. I would have died for her. I still miss her every day, ten years after we lost her. But, Mira, there is a selfishnes
s to living the way she did. When one is heedless of the consequences, one leaves wreckage behind.”
She knew he was right. Her mother’s wreckage was most of the reason she felt so angry so much of the time—not in blame, but in loss and frustration. “I’m not heedless of the consequences, Pappa. I know what they are.”
“Heedlessness isn’t ignorance, Mira. I know you understand the risk. That you do it anyway, that’s heedlessness. It worries me more than ignorance that you don’t care what harm could befall you. All you think about is what you want.”
Her father had never condemned her for the things she’d done that were outside the bounds of propriety, or safety, or decency. But Mirabella felt judgment in his words now. “I think about more than that. I think about you, and what I can do for you.”
“I don’t want you to think about that. I can take care of myself. I want you to take care of yourself. I want you to be able to stand tall and proud all through your life.”
“I am proud. Nothing I’ve done makes me feel shame.”
He answered with a slow, solemn nod.
Feeling a pang of defensiveness, she asked, “Are you ashamed of me, Pappa?”
“No, sweetheart,” he answered at once. “Never. You are the brightest star in my sky. But people talk. I wonder, if this man turns from you, what will be left for you to make a life of?”
It was a thought she’d had herself, of course. She was living with a man without marriage, and doing it in the open. She was outside the bounds of propriety. But Paolo’s entire life was outside the bounds of propriety. Few of his businesses were legitimate, and those that were, so far as she could see, were mere fronts for the illegitimate businesses. He was a man who solved his problems with bloodshed. The idea that she would be more harshly judged for not marrying him than he was for the life he’d built was, frankly, ridiculous.
Ridiculous, but true. Still, she didn’t care. If it was a character flaw to disregard the yammering of bored women at their chores, then she was flawed. She would love whom she wanted to love and live how she wanted to live.
Il Bestione (The Golden Door Duet Book 2) Page 20