Page 144 of Rosetti Family New York
Dom nods slowly.
Then he does something that takes me by surprise — he extends a hand towards me. His gesture is not of dominance or possession like it often used to be, but of peace. Friendship.
"I did what I thought was right," I say eventually, my voice just above a whisper.
"I know," he answers, his voice gruff with unspoken emotions.
"I'm sorry," I manage to say, swallowing hard.
It's not enough, nowhere near enough to wipe away the damage done. But it's a start, a step towards the light after weeks spent in the darkness. Years.
He doesn't answer at first, just watching me with an unreadable expression. And then he nods slowly. "We'll figure out the rest later."
Just like that, he dismisses it all — the blood, the betrayal, the heartache. And I fall into his arms.
31
Domenico
Ican’t tell if it’s abandoned or just so hipster that it loops back around to decrepit. Either way, the building looks condemned. The menu is painted in chipping, artsy letters on exposed brick, and the light fixtures are repurposed soda bottles. It’s cold, and the coffee tastes like burnt cardboard. It’s hard to believe she suggested this place.
But there she is, sitting at a small table in the corner, a steaming mug of something in front of her. I haven't seen her in a week, not since the mess at the theater, and my heart clenches. Her hair is down, which is so unusual I almost don’t recognize her. No sign of a designer dress so angular it could poke out an eye, either. She’s wearing tailored pants and a loose blouse, with her fur coat hanging over the back of her chair. She’s still got the steel in her spine, but she doesn’t look like the girl I married. She looks like the girl I lost.
The place is full of people who think they’re in on some exclusive secret, laptops and beanies, knit scarves and bad coffee. None of them look like they’d survive a real battle. My suit draws stares, but I’m used to that.
My shoes scrape against the cracked tile floor as I head toward her. I make it halfway, and she still hasn’t looked up. I stop and watch, telling myself it’s to get a read on the situation. It’s not. I’m buying time, and I know it.
She takes a slow sip from her mug, and the steam curls around her face, catching the morning light. It’s a view I’ve missed.
It’s almost a relief when she looks up and sees me watching. Her eyes widen. Just a flicker. She recovers, and they’re ice again. I don’t know if she’s glad to see me. But she is surprised I came, and that’s something.
She shifts in her chair and takes another sip.
A group of hipsters in the corner glance our way. A few weeks ago, I would’ve worried about eyes on us. Now, the only eyes I care about are hers. I force myself to move. Head to her table, one slow step at a time.
When I sit, she nods at the menu. “Order some terrible coffee,” she suggests.
“Why this place?” I ask.
There are a million other questions in my head, but this is the one that comes out.
“Neutral territory,” she says. “Like you wanted.”
“This wasn’t what I had in mind.” I sound too harsh, but I don’t care. “What’s wrong with Bell & Fig? Or the Hilton bar?”
Her lips curve up, but it’s not quite a smile. “Too obvious.”
She’s doing it again. Holding all the cards and laying them out one by one, as if she has all the time in the world. The worst part is, she does. She always has.
“It’s been a while,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply, and we both know how useless that word is.
I want to shake her. I want to pull her close, breathe her in, make sure she’s real. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a week, seven long days since the shootout at the abandoned theater, 168 hours she’s refused to talk, and finally, she’s agreed to meet.
She doesn’t fill the silence, just waits me out. The clock on the wall clicks too loud, each second grinding its heel into me, reminding me she’s only here because she wants to be. Because she called the shots, and I showed up. Just like always.
“Why are we here, Besiana?” My voice is too quiet. I’m almost afraid of the answer.
