Page 2 of Bruno
“Only because it’s true,” he laughs before disappearing down the hallway.
With the dishes cleaned and the house quiet, I climb into bed and let silence cover me like a blanket. But instead of sleep, thoughts of Bruno invade my mind.
Lying in the darkness, his image is vivid—tall, dark-haired, with eyes like maple syrup. After all these years, I can still smell his scent and almost feel the roughness of his stubble against my skin. It’s been years, yet his touch is etched deep as if carved by an artist’s chisel.
I turn on my side and clutch the pillow tighter. My mind replays scenes I’ve tried to bury: whispered Italian I didn’t understand, the clink of his key when he visited my apartment, the heat of our bodies entwined. I blink hard to dispel the images. It doesn’t work—hasneverworked. Fifteen years and nine months later feels like yesterday. I’m not pathetic. I tried to move on. Even made a disaster of a marriage, hoping it would help me forget. It didn’t. It only made things worse. I broke the heart of a good man because I’d been brokenhearted. A mistake I never made again. So it’s been home alone and in bed ever since. I’m usually good with that. But sometimes…
I scrunch my eyes, willing sleep to come and chase away the blues threatening my rest.
I roll over again, the sheets tangling around my legs, a restlessness possessing my body. The clock on the nightstand tells me it’s late, too late for these thoughts to be creeping in, uninvited guests in the quiet of my room.
“Damn you, Bruno,” I say to the empty room, hoping the walls will absorb my anger and carry it away. “Why can’t I forget you?”
But forgetting Bruno isn’t something my heart or my mind is willing to do. It clings to him like a vine refusing to let go of an old brick wall. He’s out there somewhere—does he ever think of me? Does he remember what we had?
He walked away. It didn’t matter the reason or that we said it was for the best. He didn’t want to bring Chris and me into his mafia world, and I got it. He said our safety had to come first. Holding my newborn, how could I disagree? How could I look at our beautiful son and risk his safety? But the decision still left me as shattered as a plate dropped on marble. I should have moved on—I know this…
But the heart has its own rules, doesn’t it?
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I tiptoe across the room and lock the door. Chris thinks he’s grown most of the time, but that doesn’t mean he won’t seek me out in my room whenever he wants his mom.
Back in bed, I let my hands wander, allowing them to take me back to times and touches I’ve never forgotten. His hands were strong, always so sure of where they wanted to be. My skin remembers every contour of his touch, the way he could set me aflame with just a look.
“Stop it, Attia,” I chastise myself even as I sink deeper into memory, letting the heat of our past ignite inside me. The safety of my locked door gives me permission, a silent nod to indulge just this once more. One last time, I lie.
I close my eyes, and there he is—Bruno with his dark intensity, his whispered promises that sounded like vows. We’re back in that tiny apartment that belonged only to us, where nothing else existed but our connection.
“Last time,” I repeat to myself, but the words are hollow. They are more of a reminder of the hold he still has on me. Heat coils deep in my belly, a spark that flares with every sweep of my fingers. My breath quickens, panting out rhythmically as the memory of Bruno’s touch consumes me. His hands, so much larger than my own, had mastered the map of my body like a conqueror.
“Te amo, Attia,” he’d growl, his voice low and rough against the shell of my ear, sending ripples of need through my core. The bed beneath us was an ocean, our bodies—ships buoying in a storm.
I mimic those same movements now, chasing the pleasure he etched into my skin. The firm press of his lips at the nape of my neck and the bite that followed. I arch into the empty space, craving his weight. My thighs opening and closing around air.
“More,” I gasp, my hand a blur as I chase my o, determined to seize it. The world narrows down to this one point of pleasure. The spot where my hand works feverishly, delving into my moist channel with my bedside battery-powered boyfriend, while my thumb strums my clit. Stroking wings of fire until my butt lifts and my legs tense.
And then it crashes over me, tidal and unrelenting. A moan tears from my throat, it’s both release and surrender. The waves recede, leaving me spent and shaking on the shore of my bed, sheets tangled around my legs like seaweed.
Guilt creeps in; of course, it does. I call myself all kinds of a fool. As sweat cools my skin and blurs the afterglow with regret. It’s always like this. I fight it until I can’t fight it anymore. Then I give in until I’m quivering and spent. No man has ever unraveled me like Bruno. I can come from his memory. If we lived in a magical land, I’d swear he was a sorcerer.
I curl into myself, the aftershocks of pleasure still rocketing through me. Heat flushes my cheeks, not from climax but from shame. It’s been years—years filled with silence and the cold side of the bed—but still, he has this power over me. The power to bring me to life and leave me hollow all at once.
“Never again,” I swear for the thousandth time before rolling onto my side. My breath steadies. I pull the sheets around me like armor. “That’s it.” I’m done with this crazy obsession. I’m no better than a stalker. Chris is right. I need to get a life. Get the hell over the man who sliced my heart with razors.
Doubt settles and lingers, a stubborn fog that won’t lift. Because as much as I want to hate him for what he’s done—for the silence, the abandonment—I can’t. Even after all these years, even after building walls around my heart, he’s there—always there.
I wake with the sun peeking bashfully through my bedroom curtains. For a moment, I forget about last night, and the familiar ache Bruno’s memory brings. Then it all comes rushing back, and I groan into my pillow. Why does he still have this effect on me? We haven’t spoken in years, and the man I once knew may as well be a stranger now. I throw off my covers and get out of bed. No more wallowing or wishful thinking; it’s time I focus on the life I’ve built since leaving Chicago. I have a son to take care of, a job I care about, and friends who love me. There’s so much to appreciate right here and now. The past is dead and gone, and I am ready to embrace the present. I can do this. I’ve already been doing it.
Christopher stumbles into the kitchen, blinking sleep from his eyes. My son is all that matters now. “Pancakes sound good?”
He nods like a little kid, and it reminds me of why we did this—to keep him safe. His eager nod propels me into action—cracking eggs with purpose, whisking batter into smoothness, sizzling bacon, filling the space with his favorite breakfast—as I pour all my newfound determination into creating this perfect moment.
Chapter 1
The Don does not get nervous. I repeat to myself like a mad mantra and wipe my hands on my suit pants. I look up and down the middle-class suburban street. I stick out like a shiny apple in a bowl of oranges. The line of black-tinted SUVs watching every stop blend in equally as well. Damn Marco and his subtlety. As he said, Don does not just drive up to a house and step out holding a bright-ass red target.
Not that I would have minded a motherfucker stepping out of the shadows and confronting me. I was willing to face the Verranzanos man-to-man. Assholes could have done the same. Instead, they’d gone underground. Hiding like cowards. I understood hiding their women and children—but their fucking men? Even if we lost, we won because who would respect them after this?
The house is small. A plain yellow and white one-story home complete with a white picket fence and a sunny flower box. When I saw the picture of where they lived, I’d nearly decked Marco. Is this where he housed my family? This was smaller than a cabin on my land overlooking Lake Michigan. He swore it was all she’d accept. He’d had to use his considerable charm; bycharm, he meant intimidation and coercion to get her to take it. She’d only acquiesced when he’d forced her from every other home and apartment. No one would rent from her. I pictured her glowering. She had a killer stare when she was angry.
