by Bethany-Kris
But she did it.
Amazingly.
“No worries,” he said, waving a hand. And then to Diego, he was quick to add, “You be good, huh? And don’t lose those rings, right?”
Diego nodded once—firm and sure. “I won’t lose ‘em, Ren.”
All too soon, Rose had tugged a happy Diego out of the room. Sometimes, it still stuck Renzo silent how he blinked, and his little brother went from four years old to ten, edging closer to eleven with every passing day. It felt like a blink in time even though he knew it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t because he was, at the same time, all too aware of the years that he had missed out on where his brother was concerned. That, like so many other things, were still ever present in his mind.
Like something else Rose had said, too.
Aware that his sister hadn’t entirely closed the door to the room, Renzo didn’t bother to cross the space and shut it. Instead, he turned to face the mirror fully. His entire reflection stared back. And like usual when he stared at himself in the mirror, he found himself once again comparing the then with the now.
What he used to be …
What he now was.
The tattoo that peeked out from under the sleeve of his tux on the back of his hand—the intricate black design that brought him peace whenever he remembered the hours sitting in the chair to get that sleeve perfect. The good twenty pounds of lean muscle he’d packed on from constant training at The League. The hard lines of his face hadn’t changed, but the dimness that was ever-present in his eyes was finally gone.
Before, years ago … he’d stare in a mirror and see things he didn’t want and thought he could never change. A man with no future, who came from discarded trash, and would never be more than he already was. Now, that person had been replaced by this man.
“I didn’t take you as the vain type, Renzo,” came a smooth, dark voice from the doorway.
Renzo spun around in just enough time to watch Lucian Marcello slip into the room. The man closed the door behind him—something Rose should have done, so then Renzo’s last few private moments before his wedding wouldn’t have been interrupted. Or rather, so that he wasn’t caught staring at himself like a fool in the mirror.
Lucian shot him a grin. “Admiring your reflection?”
Renzo arched a brow. “No.”
“No?”
“Realizing it’s not the same, that’s all.”
Lucian nodded like he understood that, although, Renzo didn’t have the first clue how the man could possibly understand. Crossing the room, Lucian took a seat on one of two high-back leather chairs, crossed his right ankle over his left knee, and rested his hands in his lap as he appraised Renzo.
He still had a way to go with this man. There were still some things that needed to be said between them at the end of the day before they were going to be one-hundred percent good again. Thing was—Renzo didn’t mind putting in the effort. In a way, Lucian Marcello had been one of the only people to give a shit about Renzo. Sure, the man had a funny way of showing it by giving him to The League … the beginning had been a little rough for them.
That didn’t change how this all shook out for them, though. And Renzo knew that he and Lucian were going to have the time to do that now—all Lucian’s scans had come back clear. He was officially in remission from his cancer.
So, yeah, they were going to have to put in the effort together. He knew that. He was grateful for this man, too.
If not for Lucian, then Renzo wouldn’t be able to look at the man he now was in the mirror. That made all the difference, didn’t it? For him, it certainly did. Daily.
He was willing to mend those bridges because of it.
Lucian tipped his head to the side, and stared at Renzo’s reflection. “And what do you see when you stare into the mirror, hmm?”
Renzo arched a brow. “Are you here to shrink my head, or what?”
“Just curious, actually.”
Well, that told him everything, right?
“It’s not what I see, but rather, what I want to see,” Renzo muttered, turning back to the mirror again. In the background, Lucian’s reflection stared back at him, but he was able to ignore it for the time being. Maybe if he said all this crazy shit that constantly pecked at the back of his brain like an annoying bird that wouldn’t leave him alone, then he might be able to move on from it. “I’ve moved on from who I used to be, haven’t I? I’ve changed.”
Lucian nodded. “In a great many ways, sure.”
See, even this man could see it.
“Then why do I still see the other me looking back, too? Despite the fact I’m not him now. Even though I’m entirely different. Something better. Someone more. I can be Renzo Anybody. I can change my last name three times a month, if I want to. I don’t ever have to be Renzo Zulla, born and bred from the Bronx if I don’t want to be. But I still see him all the fucking time.”
There.
He said it.
Those words were out—there was no taking them back, now. He seriously hoped just getting them out would do the damn thing for him and make these thoughts go away for good. But it probably wouldn’t. That was just his life and luck.
Lucian dragged in a quiet breath, and Renzo thought, maybe calming, too. “You know, you may not believe me when I say this, but you and I are much more alike in some ways than you can possibly know, Renzo.”
“Oh, you think?”
He didn’t mean for that to come out as sarcastically as it had, but it was out there now. He couldn’t change it. Lucian didn’t seem to mind as he waved a hand as if to brush off what Renzo said.
“We are similar in this way,” Lucian said. “There was a time in my life when my name was not Lucian Marcello, you see. Instead of coming from wealth and status, I came from a man and a woman who left me with a legacy of their misdeeds. Mind you, I loved my mother and father—my biological parents, I mean. Still do today, but that doesn’t change the fact that despite becoming a Marcello, being given immeasurable wealth and privilege with a simple last name, I still saw him. Luciano Grovatti, son of a murdered, shamed made man and the child of a dead woman who had been his mistress. More often than not, I thought everyone saw me that way, too, because a select few liked to remind me of exactly where I came from like it was something I could never escape.”
Clearing his throat, Lucian stood from his chair and gave Renzo a kind smile before he shrugged one shoulder under his tailored suit. “My advice, not that I learned this from someone else, because I didn’t, Renzo … this was something I learned on my own time, you see. That advice from me is to stop trying to change who he used to be by replacing him with who you see in the mirror now. He and you are one in the same, young man. And you could not be you now if not for who he was then. Own it—love him, too. He’s given you far more than anyone else ever has. You don’t have to be proud of where you came from, if that’s not what you want, but that doesn’t mean you need to be ashamed of what made you, either.”
Renzo blinked, unsure of what to say. Nothing felt appropriate, honestly. Lucian didn’t seem to mind. He gave Renzo a pat on the shoulder as he passed him by, saying, “I thought you might appreciate someone coming in to send you off into married life … considering you don’t have your own mother or father here to do it. I wasn’t sure if you would appreciate me—understandably—being the one to do it, but no one else would have been appropriate to do it, Ren.”
He gave the man a look, but Lucian was already standing in the doorway, ready to leave. “Thank you, Lucian.”
Lucian nodded. “It’s what you deserve.”
Was it?
Renzo wasn’t even sure of that, considering …
As though Lucian could read Renzo’s mind, he tossed over his shoulder as he left, “But today is not the day to think about all of that, Renzo. Today is a beautiful day.”
He stared back into the mirror again.
Lucian wasn’t wrong.
Renzo was getting married today.<
br />
What else mattered?
• • •
Renzo had never been much for confession. In fact, he had never done confession. Not once in his entire life, despite the fact that on some Sundays, he could vividly remember his mother dressing him and Rose up and dragging them into a church.
Always a Catholic church, too, because apparently, that’s just what they were. He didn’t remember his First Communion but there was something about the smell of an old church that was comforting to him. Something about the hard, curved backs of the pews that felt like he was welcomed to sit there … despite everything he was and had done.
Someone might say it was meant to be.
He didn’t know if he would.
Still, as he rolled the rosary beads between his fingers, repeating his prayers for the penance from the priest who would be marrying him and Lucia in only a half of a hour … Renzo felt relief. As strange as it was, he embraced it. Church every Sunday had never been high on his list of priority, but it was for Lucia. And every Sunday, regardless if his ass just wanted to stay in bed or not, Lucia dragged him along with her to sit in the pew.
Renzo found he didn’t mind.
Confession before the ceremony was apparently an old tradition in this church, according to the priest and every single Marcello he thought to ask. Each man nodded and grinned like they were remembering their last confession before marrying their wives when he questioned if this was necessary.
Apparently, it was.
Renzo hadn’t realized he was going to need it.
Until he did.
Funny how that worked.
He had just finished repeating the last prayer when a soft knock echoed throughout the private room used for confession. Filled with rich tapestries and chairs older than fucking time, there was always something beautiful to look at, if one wanted to. But he wasn’t looking at anything except the love of his life poking her head in the door with a sly smile.
Lucia.
That string of rosary beads hung limply from his suddenly still fingers as he took her in with an appreciative gaze. She was water, and he was taking a damn slow drink in that moment. Perfect makeup giving her a sexy look. Painted red lips and dark kohl lining her eyes. She had left her hair down in thick, shiny waves.
And her dress …
Jesus, her dress.
A ballgown that filled the doorway. In soft ivory, and draped with delicate lace, she looked like every inch a queen. His queen.
Renzo blinked. “What are you doing in here?”
He could have asked a lot of things—probably should have asked anything else, too. But shit, everyone had been so damn determined to keep her away from him … even going as far as stealing her away from him the night before after the rehearsal dinner. The Marcellos had gotten a kick out of doing that to him.
Stealing the bride-to-be from the assassin, and refusing to give her back.
The bastards.
But as he was coming to learn, they were just as much his family as they were hers. Or they wanted to be. He just had to let them.
Lucia smiled, shot a look over her shoulder, and then stepped just far enough into the room to close the door behind her. He was already rising from the chair he’d been sitting in to do his penance, and crossing the room to reach for her before she was able to get a single word out of her pretty lips.
He couldn’t get his arms around her fast enough—couldn’t get his lips on hers hard enough to satisfy the need to touch and taste her again. All it took was being away from her for a few hours, and he was ready to burn the world down to make sure she didn’t leave his side again.
It didn’t have to make sense.
It just was.
Lucia grinned wickedly against his kiss. “See, they’re not the only ones who are sneaky. Nobody can keep me away from you, Ren. I’ll always find a way.”
Renzo laughed. “This is bad luck.”
“Nope, we’ve had enough of that.”
God.
Wasn’t that the fucking truth?
Slipping his hands under her jaw, he tipped her head back, so he could stare into her eyes. Forever stared back. That, and love. Forgiveness. Sweetness. His entire fucking life.
Everything.
She was everything for him.
He could always find it in her eyes, too.
“I love you, Lucia,” he murmured.
More than she could possibly know.
For forever and a day, if God would give it to him.
Lucia stroked his lips with the pad of her thumb. “And I love you, Ren.”
That’s all that mattered.
The rest would never compare.
“Ready to get started on forever, then?” he asked.
Lucia laughed sweetly. “I have always been ready, Ren.”
Yeah, him too.
With her … always.
FOREVER
THE COMPANION
RENZO + LUCIA, BOOK 4
BETHANY-KRIS
ONE
“You’re not listening to me.”
“No,” Lucia replied, “you’re not listening to me. And that’s the far bigger problem here considering I’m the only gallery in this city that offered to show your work.”
Most days, Lucia loved her job as an art gallery owner and curator. Then, she had days like today where she wondered why in the hell she chose this career path at all.
Well, that was partly a lie.
She didn’t really wonder.
Lucia chose a career in the art world because art was the only thing she found passion in when it came to work. It was the one thing she knew she would be able to do for the rest of her life and never become bored. She found art in everything. She looked for it everywhere. She might not be the artist who created things, but she was the person who loved the final product and appreciated it the very most.
Still, though, she had times when she wondered why she chose this career, even if she knew every reason. Today was, unfortunately, one of those days.
“Listen, there’s no reason why—”
“There are several reasons why I won’t meet your demands for this gallery showing,” Lucia said. “And if you want, I will repeat them to you, Mr. Tremblay.”
“Listen, Luc—”
“Mrs. Zulla.”
She almost smiled at the way the man stiffened a bit, standing a little straighter in front of her. And not even because of him, but simply because she liked the way that name came out of her mouth. Years after marrying Renzo, here she was at twenty-nine, and damn … she still loved saying her surname, the one he’d given her.
It was something he’d waffled on. A part of him hadn’t wanted her taking the name because of what he’d seen as a stain that covered it. A legacy that wasn’t hers to carry; a burden only he should carry alone. Someone had thought to suggest maybe he take her surname, and Lucia would have been just fine with that, too.
Instead, she’d fought for his name.
Who he was.
Renzo Zulla.
That’s who she’d met him as all those years ago. That’s the man she knew, the one she’d fallen in love with, and the same one who’d proven time and time again that he was absolutely worthy of her the same way she was destined for him. So yeah, she’d taken his name and she wore it with pride. She hoped he did, now, too.
At least, he seemed to.
Leaning back in the white leather office chair that rested behind her glass desk, Lucia waited for a response from the other person in the room. The man—who’d thought coming a couple of feet inside her office while he barked at her about what he wanted for his upcoming showing, in her gallery, would get him what he wanted—fumed. Some men were like that—didn’t appreciate a woman in any position of power, and certainly not one that was above them. In Lucia’s business as the owner and director of an art gallery that she’d taken over from her aunt, Kim, a couple of years back, well … it could be even more prevalent.
Plus, art was all a
bout passion.
Artists were passionate.
They had a vision.
She got that.
Understood it perfectly fine.
Unfortunately, the vision of the artist didn’t always translate to success. And that’s where she came into play. All those art degrees she’d worked for, and the business one added on top just for good measure, well, that shit wasn’t just for decoration. She understood what would make art sell in this market. She knew how to put an artist’s work on display, and make their name and brand stand out, without them even needing to be in the same room to do it.
“I just think that we should do it my way, considering it’s my art,” Mason said, trying to soften his stance a bit. Maybe so he didn’t look as … arrogant standing there. Who was she to say? It was too little, too late for her, though, because Lucia saw right through it. “And that is the point of this showing, right? To show off my art?”
“No, actually.”
“Pardon?”
Lucia smiled. “The point of the showing is to sell your art. And if you think having my clientele walk through this place, after it has been turned into some trash heap because it’ll go with the theme, as you say, then you came to the wrong place to get this done. So, what do you want to do? Sell your art and make money so that someday you can put your entire vision on display the way you want to, or cut your contract with me and go your way? By all means, I will let you make the choice and won’t say a word about it otherwise.”
It took the man a second.
Then, two.
“I guess, I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
“You do—I just gave you two.”
Take it or leave it, buddy, she thought.
Lucia understood the man’s plight, but he’d gone about this entirely wrong. Had he genuinely been concerned about his vision coming to life as much as possible, then he could have asked her if there was something more they could do to the gallery for the upcoming showing. Instead, he’d marched into her office, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and smelling like he’d spent the night in a bar, with demands as though she were going to fold just because he’d said so.