Page 118 of Broken

A pleased gasp escapes me. “My letter! You finally received one.”

“Two, actually. I just wish I could read them all.”

“They’re probably drivel,” I say sheepishly. “The ramblings of a woman who was very sick and didn’t know it.”

“They were for me,” is his fierce retort. “My gift from you?—”

“Hardly!” I counter, but my cheeks burn with heat at his defense of me.

“I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

His jaw tenses. “I went to see Paolo LorenzobeforeI defrocked. The clerical collar has a powerful effect on people.” He tugs at where it once would have lain and the lack of weight there seems to be reflected in his eyes.

I can only hope it makes him breathe easier.

“Did you kill him?” I whisper hesitantly, unsure what I want his answer to be.

He shakes his head. “He was in the hospital.”

“Hospital?”

“Complications due to alcohol poisoning. He spent the weekafter…drunker than was healthy.” Sighing, he runs a hand over my hair. “I put the fear of God into him the best I could. Told him that he survived only to right the wrongs he made.”

“Do you think that’s enough?” I ask, wondering why Lorenzo didn’t talk about the sudden disappearance of his wife and niece.

Perhapsthatwas what triggered this stint in the hospital?

“No. I’d like to think so, but even though he’s had a scare—I told him that he was drinking so heavily that night out of guilt—I know how temptation works.

“I warned one of the police officers who visited me in the hospital about him too. With no evidence, there’s nothing they can do. I wanted to talk to Junia, Lorenzo’s wife, and their niece before I left. I was hoping to give them Esposito’scard, but I couldn’t get in touch with them.”

I pat his chest. “I have a feeling all will be well with that family.”

“What have you done?” he demands instantly.

“Nothing.”

He sighs. “We don’t have long, but when this is all over and we have a lifetime of quiet nights ahead of us, you’re going to tell me what you’ve been up to before we fall asleep.”

The tone is so reminiscent of the faintly scolding, faintly exasperated, faintly proud one my dad uses when I find myself in these situations that joy settles in my heart. That’s nothing to the promise of thousands of nights of falling asleep in his arms.

“You won’t hear me complaining,” I tell him huskily. “Now, what’s the next step?”

“I have a few more hoops to jump through before things are finalized on this end.” Hesitantly, he continues, “I’m going to meet you in the States. While I work things out here, I want you to go to the hospital. Ineedyou to go for a checkup. Your letters…”

I study his expression—spy the worry in his eyes, the deepening anxiety at my silence. I see no regret in his heart. This isn’t a rejection. Nor is it a goodbye.

My cheeks puff out as I recall what I admitted to him in my final letters. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He gapes at me. “I thought you’d argue.”

“I think I need to go too,” I admit sheepishly.

Concern has him hauling me tighter into him like he can protect me with his body. I wish that were true.

“What is it?” he demands. “What’s wrong?”

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