Page 32 of The Sicilian Brotherhood I

We finished eating and again he offered me wine. This time, I was too tired, too worn to refuse him. All that time passing between us in silence had made me lonely for communication, desperate to reach out for something, even if it was just a glass of wine with a man who had kidnapped me.

Getting the rug pulled out from under you in the way I did had such a funny effect.

When I agreed to the wine, his face lit up and he reached for an old bottle of Malbec that had been sitting in the back of his cupboard so long that a thin layer of dust coated it. He wiped it off with worn white towels, initialed with the letters G.V.

“Embroidered towels?” I chuckled.

“They aren’t mine.”

“G.V. Those are your initials, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” he replied, “They’re also my mothers.”

“Is she —“

I started to ask but then thought better of it. He didn’t mind the question.

“She’s not dead. She lives in Atlanta.”

“Atlanta?!”

“Part of the year.”

“Wow.”

“She misses Italy. But it’s not safe for her to come back.”

“It doesn’t sound safe for us to be here.”

“It isn’t,” he said, tipping his wine glass back down his throat.

“Damn,” he coughed after the wine had slid down his throat and hit his stomach sharply.

“Good wine,” I finished.

“Better company.”

I stared down into the glass, watching as the gentle movements of my hand shifted the wine around.

“Shy?” He asked.

“No,” I replied.

“You’re quiet.”

“You have a convenient way of forgetting why I’m here.”

“Right,” he chuckled, “I dragged you here.”

“It’s not so funny to me.”

“Listen, didn’t you want away from that ex of yours?”

“I did, but this isn’t the way I planned on doing it.”

“But marrying him was?”

“You have no right to judge me,” I snapped.

---