Page 10 of Brando

“You’re saying they drugged you with peace and quiet and snuck out,” I scoff, skepticism in my voice. I don’t want her bringing up the past. I don’t want her reminding me of things that have no business coming alive now. I don’t want the revelations that the past brings with it.

A brief flicker of hurt crosses her face, before she rights herself and lifts her chin in defiance, pretending that my words didn’t just wound her. She folds her arms across her chest and raises an eyebrow, daring me to challenge her.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she retorts. “I’m sorry, butwhyare you here?”

Obviously, she’s not impressed with my sudden appearance, nor my attitude. Mason admonishes her, tells her to hold her tongue, but I hold up a hand, telling him to let her talk.

“We’re not in the habit of repressing young ladies’ voices,” I remind him, my eyes never leaving hers.

“Dandy,” she replies, throwing her arms up in irritation. “Why the fuck are you here?”

Oh boy. Here it comes.

“I’m your only hope of getting your sisters back, Mia. So you’d best not piss me off.”

6

MIA

The scent of cedarwood and citrus fills the air, the warm fragrance mingling with the sharp tang of leather and wood. It’s a sophisticated scent, one that carries weight—like time itself has settled here and found a home. The atmosphere is heavy, but intoxicating, like something you don’t quite trust but can’t tear yourself away from. It replaces the musty, stale air that lingered when I first walked into the space that feels forgotten by the world.

The room, despite its size, feels like it’s been tailored to his presence. Brando fills it effortlessly, his towering frame making the modest space feel even smaller. He stands there like a storm contained within the perfect confines of a well-fitted suit—impeccably tailored, every line and crease sharp, as though he was born to wear such clothes. His presence is overwhelming, yet strangely comforting. There’s an undercurrent of power to him now, something magnetic, as if he draws the room to him just by existing in it. I can feel my pulse quicken, my heart thumping louder than it should. He’s always had that effect on me.

Brando Gatti.

My heart stutters in my chest the moment he walks into the room at the store. It’s the kind of jolt that stops time, the world pausing on its axis as I realize exactly who is standing there. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him—not when he refuses to acknowledge me. Not when ten years have passed, and he barely spares me a second glance.

It’s been a lifetime since I last saw him, yet everything about him is burned into my memory, every detail clear and unyielding. But today—today, he’s nothing more than a fleeting shadow of the boy I once knew. That boy who disappeared from my life without a word, without any explanation, leaving behind nothing but an echo of what we had. No goodbye. Nothing. I almost forgot him over the years, forced myself to bury the wound he left behind. Yet here he is, standing before me, and everything I thought I had forgotten comes rushing back in waves.

The memories flood in—brutally sweet, almost too much to handle. I was fifteen then, too naïve, too stupid to realize that giving my heart to Frank Falcone was a desperate, foolish attempt to grab Brando’s attention. I wanted him to see me—really see me—instead of just that girl who tagged along in the background. To notice me, the way I had noticed him, the way I had crushed on him in a way that made every other guy in the world seem irrelevant.

But Brando never saw me. Not like that. He saw me as a friend. A childhood companion. And that was all I would ever be to him.

“Are you sure we’ve covered everything?” Brando asks, and I have to shake my head, get out of my thoughts before I can even coherently start to think of an answer to his question. He’s so damn beautiful, it’s blinding.

“Nails. They were concerned about their nails,” I stumble over my words.

“Nails?”

He looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. I hold up my short, perfectly manicured nails and flick at them.

“My sisters are vain like that - they wanted to get their nails done.”

“And youletthem!?!” Uncle Mason roars. I should shrink back into the sofa at his tone, but I don’t. I’m brave like that. Foolish, but brave. Brando throws an arm out, holding my uncle back as he rages. He places an index finger to his lips, asking for his silence. It’s a sight to behold, because Uncle Mason bends tono-one. And yet here he is, taking orders from Brando Gatti, a man maybe half his age.

“I didn’tletthem do anything.” I’m just as defiant as he is.

Brando’s magnificent blue eyes cut me down to size, daring me to say another word. Those eyes had once held my teenage dreams in their depths. They probably still could hypnotize me, with the way they reflect his intensity and intelligence. Even though I haven’t seen him in years, I can still remember every last devastating detail about Brando Gatti, because that’s how much of an impression he left on me.

I watch him as he flicks his eyes at me from across the room, my heart thrumming in my chest like it did back in high school, only now it's deeper, more resonant. There’s a familiarity in his expression that tugs at something deep within my soul. His hair, once a wild tangle of boyish curls, is now styled back from his face, the dark waves catching the soft light, drawing him in an almost ethereal halo. His jawline is sharper than I remember, so sharp it could probably cut glass, each angle and curve more pronounced, more defined.

And his arms…damn, those hands and arms. He’s discarded his coat and rolled up his sleeves to reveal impressive forearms with scrolls of ink lining his skin. He moves too fast for me to make out particulars, but the shadows against his hands andarms speak of power and strength, two things my life is sorely lacking right now.

With time, the boy I once knew has become a man, his posture confident, his height intimidating. He fills out his suit like he was born to wear it. Each contour of his tailored shirt hugs his broad shoulders, tapering down to a waist that shows the years have been kind to him. He could very well have just stepped out of the pages of a magazine, with his height and build and the air of mystery that surrounds him. I didn’t think it was possible, but Brando Gatti, with time, has become a force of nature. Everything about him is big. His presence, his heart, his soul. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, Brando wouldn’t be here to help if he wasn’t a certain type of man.

“You two can kill each other later,” Brando says, shooting glances between Mason and me. “We need to get to the city.”

We drive around the city for hours. We criss cross the same areas over and over, without luck. We’ve checked every possible place that I think my sisters could have gone to, and we’ve come up empty handed each and every time. There’s not a single shred of evidence that they were ever even in the city.

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