Page 36 of Finding Love

“Of course, that’s not what I want. I also don’t want to back down now?—”

“It’s not backing down. We don’t back down.” His flash of irritation is like a sudden bolt of lightning flaring up out of nowhere. “It’s doing the right thing for the future. For the people coming after us. This can’t go on forever.”

“I agree, but?—”

He’s not interested in letting me finish a damn word as he cuts me off. “I am still the head of this family,” he reminds me. “If I say I want this over, that’s how it’s going to be.”

It chaps my ass to ask this, except I have to. “Does Dante know?”

“Know about what?” he counters with a smirk. “That we’re having a conversation, you and me? That’s all this is,” he adds, though I have to wonder if there’s more to it when his smirk doesn’t fade. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I don’t want you walking around worrying about your old man. One day, you’ll understand what it’s like.”

I don’t understand a damn thing since he isn’t making any sense. “I thought you were calling me in here to give me hell,” I admit, still wary.

“That was the idea, but I know it would be a waste of time. You’re going to do whatever the hell you want when it comes to her.” I can’t tell if he’s resentful or if he admires me for it.

“Tell me the truth,” I urge. “Would you do any different if you were in my shoes, trying to protect Mama?”

The hardening of his expression is the same as a wall lowering between us. “I would’ve done a lot of things differently, but then you know that already.” Dante’s entrance marks the end of our conversation, leaving me to spend our usual morning meetings wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean.

Not that I need to wonder. I remember too well Papa’s determination to get Emilia out of the way once and for all. I wish he’d keep that shit to himself, is all. I thought he’d changed his mind about us. I thought he saw my side of things.

It’s still weighing on my mind when I take a break, heading down to my house to ask Emilia if she’ll have lunch with us today. If not, I’m sure Guilia would be happy to come down and hang out with her. She shouldn’t spend so much time alone. She needs to feel like she’s a part of the family. One of us.

Immediately on stepping over the threshold, it’s clear something is off. The photos and books that came from Emilia’s apartment are absent from the living room. She’s moving around in the bedroom, opening and closing drawers one after another.

I know what’s happening, but that doesn’t mean I want to accept it as I slowly walk across the room, closing in on the bedroom and the woman currently packing like her life depends on it. The door is open far enough for me to slip through without making a sound. She’s working with her back to me, cramming items into a suitcase seemingly at random.

A shockwave rolls through me, strong enough to rock me back on my heels. So this is how it feels to live through a bomb blast. For one fleeting second, I wonder if I want to live through it because I know what I’m witnessing. Rolling my shoulders back and stiffening my spine, I ask, “What the hell are you doing?”

She jumps and spins in place, wearing a stricken expression like she’s afraid she’s made her last mistake. Her frozen shock lasts for a second before she gets a hold of herself again. “You’re not usually back this early,” she observes, her voice breathy, a handful of bras clutched against her chest.

Of all the things she could’ve said, that might be the worst. “What are you doing, Emilia?” I grit out again because the reality is if she leaves me again, I’m already dead.

She casts a look over the bed, where her bags are lying open, then looks down at the boxes stacked near her feet. “I’m leaving.” When I can only stare at her, she adds, “This is what I need to do.”

What she needs to do. I let out an exasperated huff. She needs to shatter my life? She needs to pack her bags while I’m out of the house like she’s sneaking off in fear? “No, it’s not,” I insist. “You need to stay here with me. Where do you think you’re going?” I can’t believe this is happening.

“To my apartment, where I belong. I know…” she sighs when I protest, “… I know you don’t want me to go. I know you think I’m safer here.”

“You are!” Her head snaps back at the volume of my voice, but I’ll be damned if I tiptoe around to spare her feelings. I may have fucked up, but this… no, she can’t leave me. “You’re safer here, where I can watch you. What is it going to take to get that through your skull?”

I could’ve gone the rest of my life without hearing her derisive laughter. “According to whom? You?” She shoves the bras into the closest bag, then grabs a handful of socks from one of the drawers and adds them without looking, like she’s fleeing in panic.

From me.

I’m the one who loves her, and she’s fleeing from me.

“Yes, according to me,” I snarl out, marching around the bed, taking the bag by its handle and pulling it to me. “You’re not going anywhere,” I insist, my tone strained with affection, though I can't shake the feeling of her slipping away.

“Listen to yourself.” She shakes her head before taking hold of the bag and yanking it back. “You sound like the textbook example of an abuser when you talk that way. I’m not your prisoner.” So this is the game we’re playing, where she pulls a superior act like she’s better than me.

The last drawer is empty. I slam it, taking her by the arms and turning her to look at me. I hate what I see etched across her face. The distrust. The dread.

“Let go of me,” she murmurs, and it’s somehow worse than anything she could scream. Flat, toneless, like she’s talking to a stranger. The last thing I want is to cause her pain.

Somewhere during the night, she pulled away from me.

She shut down.

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