Page 75 of Bianchi

Massimo cuts into my thoughts as he rests his elbows on his desk. “I know you’ll want to get home, Rome, so if it’s okay with you, maybe Daniele can stay and help us out? Then you can take Aurora and give her another view from the one in your room.”

Without bothering to correct his assumption or give Daniele the courtesy of a glance, I reply, “Sure. But I’ll be staying, at least until Aurora’s healed enough to leave.” Hopefully, with me.

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Massimo pauses before adding, “How is she?”

Running my tongue over my bottom lip, I stare out of the window. “She’s going to be fine. It’ll take her time to come to terms with what she’s been through, but I know she will.”

Massimo chuckles and I shift my focus to him, catching the smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “She sure surprised me back at the warehouse. You might just make a made woman out of her yet.”

I’m fucking proud of what she did. She took back her control and there was no way in hell I was going to stop her. Holding his stare, I reply, “It wouldn’t have been fair for anyone else but her to have killed him. Not after what he’s done to her family.”

Massimo and Daniele both nod. The reality of what Aurora’s lost hits us all at once. She’s the strongest person I know and if she gives me another chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure she doesn’t forget her strength and resilience.

Chapter 49

Aurora

My body is relaxed and in a perfect, hazy slumber right before I wake up. I luxuriate in the feeling of Romeo’s warmth surrounding me. It’s the only time I allow myself to forget what he’s done. To forgive him.

This is the second morning that I’ve woken up like this. His bare chest pressed to mine and his arms holding me with a gentleness that brings tears to my eyes. And each time, I blink my eyes open, press my hands into his chest, and force my way out of his embrace. He rolls onto his back, an ugliness filling the surrounding air. It’s getting harder and harder to push him away and it’s only been two days since I returned. It should be easy. I should be able to remember what he did—what he said—and fan the flames of my anger. But it’s not working, especially when I wake up with the reminder of what we had.

Why can’t it be easy to hate him?

Because I love him.

This morning, Romeo exhales sharply and throws the covers off before climbing from the bed and walking into the bathroom without a word. I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of him getting ready for his day.

I don’t want to love him. I want to hate him because I don’t like how weak I feel by giving in. Why am I doing this to myself? I should leave. There’s nothing keeping me here, after all. Even Doc said my leg was healing nicely and if it continues to, then he’ll be giving me the all clear at the end of the week. So why not just walk out of the door? What are they going to do, shoot me? Besides, if I stay any longer, I might do something as stupid as giving in to my heart when my head is screaming at me to run.

Sitting up, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, searching the room for my crutch that Callie brought over yesterday after she caught me walking on my own. It’s safe to say I’m motivated to get back on my feet. I prop my crutch up against the bedside table so I can reach it, but this morning it’s resting on the chair by the window. Great. Romeo must have moved it.

With one hand on the bedside table and the other on the mattress, I push up. I’m halfway to standing when the bathroom door opens and Romeo strides out, a towel wrapped around his waist and his wet, bare chest on full display. I avert my eyes and drop back down onto the mattress as I listen to him pad across the carpet. I’ll try again when he’s gone.

He comes to stand in front of me, holding out the metal stick. My hands feel clammy as I reach for it and I pray he can’t see the way my body is trembling as I wrap them around it. I hate that he has this effect on me. All he has to do is be half naked and I’m a melting puddle of need. It’s pathetic.

His deep timbre rolls through my body, sending bolts of desire shooting to my core when he says, “Callie will be here in an hour to check on you.”

Callie isn’t supposed to be coming today. I frown, brushing off the unwanted desire as I finally meet his gaze. “Why?”

“I’ve asked her to. She’ll take you into the garden and bring you back in. I thought you might want to do some drawing and get out of this room.”

My mouth forms into an O shape before I close it and nod. It would be nice to get outside and do some sketching. I feel his eyes on me, but neither of us speaks, and when he heads into the closet, I exhale a heavy breath before standing and heading into the bathroom.

A chill has settled into the air and the sun has long disappeared between the heavy gray clouds that have rolled in. I’ve been putting off going inside, the fresh air enough to keep me out, even if the hairs on my arms are standing on end.

Pushing my pad onto the table in front of me, I pick up my crutch and awkwardly stand from the chair, the blanket Callie placed over my lap falling to a pile on the floor at my feet. A drop of water falls from the sky, landing on my nose and I turn my face up, breathing in deeply as I wait for more to come. There’s something calming about the rain.

A knock on the window behind me pulls my attention and I turn to find Alma gesturing animatedly behind the glass. I watch as she rushes to the door a few steps away before bursting through it and crossing the patio toward me.

“What are you doing? You should call for help,” she admonishes.

I can’t help but chuckle and the first genuine smile I’ve felt since I was taken tugs at my lips before my face crumples and tears tumble down my cheeks. Rain falls in a sheet soaking me through and yet I still don’t move. Alma pulls me into her arms, squeezing me tightly as she mutters hurried Italian words that I don’t understand into my shoulder.

We’re both getting soaked as she hooks her arm into mine to help me into the house and through to the kitchen. By the time we enter the warm room, my teeth are chattering and my eyes have dried up. Maria is at the sink, her back to us and a stiffness that I know all too well in her posture. She doesn’t turn to acknowledge our presence and something about it fills me with unease. Alma settles me into a chair at the kitchen table and shuffles across the room to the refrigerator.

I watch as she moves around the room preparing tea, before darting into the laundry room and returning a moment later with a pile of towels. She hands one to me before returning to the two cups of tea on the counter. I don’t miss the way she runs her hand over Maria’s back in a comforting gesture.

Something’s happened.

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