Page 52 of The Sicilian Inheritance

It was as if Marco read my mind. “She heard it from Rosalia this morning when she took Liuni there. But she’s worried you must hate her now and she was afraid to come. It was Carmine who did this to you?”

I shook my head.

“You were on his land. You were with Cettina when he called for you.”

That day at Cetti’s home, the two of us laughing at her kitchen table, seemed very long ago.

Marco was insistent. “There was no injured horse, Fina.”

Another shake of my head. But who was I protecting with my silence? It was the dead man I was most afraid of, the one with the powerful bosses. What would Carmine tell those bosses? Who would he blame when they asked their questions?

I answered Marco’s question without answering it.

“I could never hate Cetti.”

“You are more her blood than her brothers.”

But this wasn’t true. Blood was blood and nothing was stronger.

“Tell Cetti I will come see her tomorrow. I am fine. Thank you for coming here to check on me, but you should get home.”

Neither of us moved.

“Your head is bleeding,” he said faintly.

I cursed under my breath. The cut kept opening up and I had not been able to make it back up the mountain to have Rosalia stitch it for me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, and I said yes because I was so tired, and I needed another set of hands and eyes. I got the antiseptic and clean bandages from my bag and sat in the kitchen.

“You will need to tell me what to do.”

His hands on my scalp were tender as he parted my hair to expose the gash made when Carmine ripped out the strands. I knew it was ugly and filled with pus. Before I could think, he went to get a warm washcloth and was cleaning the area around the wound. I could hardly feel the pain, my mind focused instead on his fingers massaging the place where my shoulder met my neck as his other hand cleansed my head.

“After the water you’ll need to sterilize it with the alcohol,” I whispered. “And then use the needle to stitch the skin together. If you can’t, do not worry. Reapply the bandage and I will take care of it in the morning.”

He pulled in a deep breath. “I can do it.”

His hands shook as he threaded the needle through my skin. Stitches are not so difficult if you are used to sewing and mending the way all of us women have done since we were little girls. But a needle seems so small and useless in a man’s big clumsy hands. Yet Marco managed to do what he needed to do. I explained how to reapply the bandage and then I rose to inspect his work in the glass of the window. It wasn’t as good as what I could have done for myself, but it was still better than I expected. I knew he was more shaken over the blood and the needle than he would care to admit aloud.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I am in awe of the work you do,” he said.

“Thank you, not everyone is. But you know that already.” A part of me wanted to tell him everything that happened to me on that farm.

“I thought I was going to die.” That was all I needed to say, and he understood. He did exactly what I wanted him to do, which was wrap his arms around me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to be held and comforted until that very moment.

I was the one who kissed Marco first. I tipped my face up to his, ugly tears still streaming down my cheeks as I found his lips with mine. He kissed me back as I had known he would ever since that day we drove to Sciacca together and maybe even before that. My hands found their way into his thick hair. I’d imagined this moment before and yet nothing in my imagination matched what it felt like to have his lips pressed hard into mine, to feel his hands grip my body with a desperate need.

My children were asleep in the other room. I did not forget that. It was as though my brain were split into two parts, the mother and this woman who was being touched and desired.

We separated after only a few minutes and stared at one another. Maybe it wouldn’t go any further, maybe we would simply press our lips together forever until the devil himself exposed us. But I wanted more. I wanted to feel him against me and inside me. It had been so long since my body was mine and mine alone to do whatever I wanted with. It had belonged to my husband and my children and my patients, but never to me and never to a man I truly desired as a grown woman.

I searched Marco’s face for guilt or shame, but there was nothing but care and desire.

“Should I leave?” he asked, his voice uncertain.

“You should.”

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