Page 47 of Bianchi

This is all too much.

In some ways, it makes sense. My father was in the mafia, he must have worked with Romeo and Massimo’s family, but to think that I knew them? That I grew up with them and did such mundane things like playing hide and seek? That’s inconceivable.

How different would my life have been if I’d never had that accident?

My pad falls from my numb fingers, grazing my leg as it falls to the floor. The ground tilts and my breaths come in quick, shallow pants as I race from the garden, ignoring Andrea’s pleas to stop.

Chapter 27

Romeo

Her body collides with mine when I step into the hallway that connects the one from Massimo’s office with the main entryway. Fresh air and jasmine fill my lungs.

Without looking down at her, the press of her gentle curves against the hard planes of mine tells me exactly who it is. My hands hold her arms and Aurora looks up at me, her watery, sea-green eyes filled with confusion and hurt. Somewhere in the depths, there’s a pleading before she blinks and it’s gone.

My nostrils flare as a cocktail of fury and protectiveness sweeps through me. Holding her at arm's length, my eyes roam her body, searching for any injuries. “What’s happened?” My tone is harsh and grating as I struggle to contain the desire to snap the neck of whoever put this look on her face.

Aurora sucks in a breath and aggressively yanks herself out of my hold. Her voice is shaky and uncertain, her gaze darting around the quiet corridor. Trepidation fills her features, and in a broken whisper, she mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

She brushes past me, racing toward the front of the house before she disappears. It takes everything I have inside me not to chase after her and I clench and unclench my fists, willing the unfamiliar, protective sensation in my gut away. In the distance, the sound of our bedroom door slamming echoes around the house.

Forcing myself to relax, I blow out a breath and unlock my jaw. I need to find out what’s happened and then I can speak to her. And make whoever has hurt her pay.

Turning in the direction Aurora came from, I stride forward. The double doors that lead to the garden are wide open, giving me an indication of where she must have come from. I cross the threshold, my eyes scanning the vast garden. The cool afternoon breeze does little to soothe the heat flushing through my body.

Andrea approaches the house from the rose garden and my eyes narrow when I spot Aurora’s pad in his grasp. I widen my stance and clasp my hands in front of me, waiting for him to reach me.

He briefly meets my eyes before dropping contact and offering up a nervous and apologetic smile. Holding out her pad, he shuffles his feet, making the gravel crunch beneath his work boots. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she didn’t know, Mr. Bianchi.”

I don’t take the pad. There’s a deathly calmness to my tone when I ask, “Didn’t know what, Andrea?”

He drops his arm to his side, lifting his face to mine. His brow furrows and I watch his mouth open and close as he thinks about how to answer my question. “That her mother used to work for Mr. Marino Sr., and… that she had an accident in the rose garden?” He ends his statement on a question, looking for reassurance.

I don’t give it to him. Instead, I nod slowly, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. Masking my annoyance that I wasn’t the one to tell her, I reply, “Okay.”

He holds up the pad again, his shaking hands the only physical sign of his nerves. Andrea has worked for Massimo’s family for nearly four decades. His father worked for us before him. He’s part of our family and that’s why I won’t kill him. I know he meant no harm in telling Aurora about her past, but it doesn’t abate the frustration that’s still bubbling away in my gut at the thought of her not being prepared to hear it.

I should have told her the moment I found out, but it doesn’t move us forward with finding Francesco, so I figured it could wait. Cristo, it surprised me when Massimo brought it up. He said it so casually that I thought he was joking. Apparently, he’d had Aldo look into her mom and found out that she used to work for us. It was like the final piece of the puzzle for why there’s been a familiarity about Aurora since the moment I first laid eyes on her photo.

Blinking away the distracting thoughts, I take Aurora’s pad from Andrea and turn back toward the house without another word. I can’t do anything about how she’s found out, but I can do something to erase the pain that was marring her beautiful features.

It’s not your responsibility.

Yes, it is. She is my responsibility. I took her, and that makes her mine. I owe it to her to keep her safe, even if it’s from a past neither of us remembers. My steps are methodical as I move through the house, each one doing nothing to ease the dread that seems to be balling into a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach.

When I reach the bedroom, I stride in, only to come up short when I find it empty. Beyond the closed bathroom door, the tell-tale sound of water hitting tile draws my focus.

Throwing her pad onto the bed, I divert toward the noise, expecting the handle to give way when I push down on it. When it doesn’t, I growl in frustration, pounding my fist on the door. A whimper sounds in response and I try to rid my tone of the frustration wrapping around my throat when I grind out, “Aurora, open the door.”

Her voice is barely audible over the running water but I can hear the hurt loud and clear when she sniffs, “I’m fine. Please, leave me alone.”

Bullshit, she’s not fine at all.

Pounding my fist on the door again, I shout, “Open the goddamn door, Aurora, or I’ll break it the fuck down.”

She sobs the most pained and gut-wrenching sound I’ve ever heard. It sends a sharp stab of pain to my chest. I don’t wait for her to answer. Instead, I take a step back and kick in the door, uncaring of the damage. She startles from her position on the shower floor, pushing herself up the wall and into the corner when I storm in. Her eyes are wide and terrified, but through the mist of anger surrounding me, it barely registers.

My eyes flit from her head down to her toes and it’s only when I can see that she’s okay, my body relaxes. She’s drenched, her dress molded to her body and wet strands of hair plastered to her face.

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