Page 145 of Wounded King
And I'm still me.
Pippa watches me for a beat, the grin fading just enough to let something real peek through.
"So…" she says slowly. "Are we good?"
I sigh and rub a hand over my face. "Yeah. We're good." I glance over at her. "I mean, I've alwayssuspected. Now I know."
Her brows lift slightly. "Suspected?"
I shrug. "You've got that wholeprobably has bodies in a storage unitenergy. I just figured it was metaphorical."
She snorts.
"But listen," I add, leveling her with a look. "Don't lie to me again. Ever. And don't kill anyone I care about."
Pippa raises one hand, solemn as a scout. "Scout's honor."
"And stay the hell away from Felix," I warn. "I've read the stories about serial killers and pets."
She grins. "Please. I'm not amonster.I gave him salmon once. He owns me now."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, unsteady and real. I don't even realize I'm crying until she stands and pulls me into her arms, tight, warm, and solid. The kind of hug that doesn't ask permission. The kind that anchors you.
"I'll protect you always," she says into my hair. "Marcello already hired me. I'm officially your terrifying emotional support assassin."
I sniff. "You're so messed up."
"And you love me for it."
"Unfortunately," I mutter into her shoulder, "yeah. I really do."
Speaking of, not even five minutes later, he walks in, looking like he's been dragged through hell and back. Pippa excuses herself wisely, and Marcello drops two bombs at me. One, that Raffael and Sophia have finally resurfaced, that Sophia is well and unharmed, and that Raffael is an asshole and he wants to pump him full of lead, but can't because his sister is in love with him. The second is that my father is on his way here.
I'm not sure which news floors me more. I only met Sophia once, but I like her and would love to get to know her better, which Marcello promises will happen very soon, as soon as I'm able to leave the bed.
"I'm sorry, tesoro. I'll call him off if you don't feel up to it…" Marcello offers after dropping the second bomb about my father being on his way.
He warned me before we left the hospital that Enzo is here in the city and hellbent on seeing me. He met with Elaine and Sebastian a few times while I've been recovering from my concussion, and he's made it clear he won't leave without seeing me.
"It's okay. I want to see him," I assure Marcello. It's true. I'm more than curious to meet him. I wish I were feeling better, but if wishes were nuts and all that.
Alejandro knocks on the bedroom door. "Mr. Carbone is here," he announces.
Felix, who has so far been lying with me on the bed, makes a beeline for Alejandro and climbs up his legs, claws out. "Argh." Alejandro knows better than to try to swipe Felix off. But the look on his face says it all. He would love nothing better than to shake his leg and throw Felix against the wall.
Marcello keeps his chuckles to himself and, in a very unusual act of kindness, takes Felix off Alejandro's leg. "Show him in."
Alejandro glares at Felix, who snuggles into Marcello's arm. Marcello basically throws him back on the bed, but with an expression resembling adoration on his face. Like Felix is growing on him for hurting his men.
My stomach flutters in anticipation and nervousness.
"You just say the word Tesoro, and I'll kick him out," he promises.
I reply with a weak smile and steel myself to meet the man I haven't seen in twenty years, the man I don't remember, the man who says he's my father.
Enzo Carbone is a mountain of a man. So many scars mar his face, it's hard to make out any features, but his hazel eyes glisten in warmth at me and look so much like mine that there is no doubt in me that this man is my father.
"Violetta," his voice is merely above a whisper as he strides toward the bed, "Papà ti ama, piccola Violetta." He says just the way I remember it. My arms stretch out toward him. I notice Marcello stiffen, and the sharp edges of his features stand out, but he must manage to restrain himself, because in the next moment, I'm swallowed up by a massive hug. Despite the twenty years and believing him dead, a part of me remembers him. "Papà," I cry.
