Page 49 of Captured Fantasy

He emptied his coffee cup and left my house and never came back. It was such a quintessentially Lucien thing to do to just walk out without an explanation, without saying goodbye. But it hurt all the same.

It all made sense when he announced his engagement a month later to Cosimo’s sister, Olivia. I didn’t know her well, but she went to St. Bede’s with her family. She was a thin, nervous girl of almost twenty who kept to herself most of the time. I saw them at the country club several weeks after Carolina’s death. She was beautiful beside him in a dark green dress with her hair falling around her face and neck.

She turned away and I caught his eyes on her with an expression I’d never seen before on his face. Something clicked in my chest and I realized it was well and truly over with him. If he didn’t love her already, he would love her before the year was out.

I found I was happy for him, happy that he had found a scrap of peace in a harsh world.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

COSIMO

It took everything I had that winter to listen to Lucien and stay away from Enza. I distracted myself with work and trying to soldier through the grief of losing Paolo. We never found out who had attacked the warehouse and Lucien eventually filed a report that it was Russians and let the matter drop. Then he turned around and put a crushing amount of pressure on me by promising Carlo Romano that it would never happen again.

He gave me the men and guns I needed, but the actual work was up to me. He pushed me hard and I rose to the occasion. Whatever plan he had for me, I was willing to go along with it if it meant I got the things I wanted.

Amadeo returned from visiting Carolina’s family, but he didn’t text that he was back. It bothered me I hadn’t heard from him. He’d been a mess when I’d said goodbye to him. Broken, a little drunk, a little high.

After a week of silence, I went to his townhouse early in the morning. The door was locked and no one responded when I beat on it, but his car was parked in the driveway. I glanced over my shoulder at the empty street. Then I wrapped my jacket around my fist and knocked in the pane of glass by the knob. I waited, but there was silence.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside and choked on the thick smell of smoke hovering in the hall. All the lights were out, the only illumination from the windows. I walked down the hall and into the kitchen, locating the smoke. There was a pot of charred noodles on the stove, crackling. I turned the gas off and moved into the dining room to open a window.

There were piles of clothes on the table. Lace, chiffon, silk. Heaps of high heels and lingerie and brassieres and panties. They were Carolina’s clothes. Stacked high as if they’d been thrown in a rage. My chest tightened and my mind went back to my night with Mrs. Russo. Her pretty clothes and underwear would all be like this one day, cold and dead without her warmth to fill them. The thought turned my stomach.

“What are you doing here?”

I turned. Amadeo stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore disheveled pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned. His face was pale, drawn, and there were bruises under his eyes from exhaustion. He could barely keep his gaze on me. It kept bouncing around the room, looking everywhere except the clothes on the table.

“Mads,” I said, my voice catching. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Well,” he said. “My wife died, if you didn’t hear.”

“Mads.”

He pivoted on his heel, but I caught the wetness glittering on his lashes. I followed him down the hall, seizing his arm and spinning him. Throwing him against the wall. He fought me for a moment and then his torso seized. I stepped back, but not fast enough to avoid the vomit that spattered onto my shoes.

“Jesus,” I breathed, to no one in particular. “How long have you been like this?”

“I’m sick,” he managed. “I just haven’t been eating or sleeping. That’s all.”

I slammed his back up against the wall, taking his face in my grip and turning it up. Something was off. He wasn’t crying, his eyes were watering like he was looking into a bright light. I put my fingers to his pulse. Fuck, it was racing. No wonder his shirt was soaked.

He sagged and I pressed him against the wall with my elbow. He didn’t fight me as I ripped his cuff open and tore his shirtsleeve back. There were marks on the inside of his forearm and elbow.

Fuck.

His chest heaved and he started sobbing brokenly. I stood there, holding him upright, sick to my stomach. He didn’t protest when I hauled his arm over my shoulder and half dragged him to the bedroom. It smelled like vomit and body odor and I fought the urge to turn and walk out. Instead, I propped him up in a chair and cleaned everything up.

I found fresh sheets in the linen closet and I made up the bed. Then I gathered all the empty bottles and cans from every surface and wiped everything down with disinfectant. He watched me through bleary eyes as I pulled open the window to let some fresh air in. I paused, sweating, and stared down at his shivering form.

“You get in the shower,” I said.

He didn’t protest. I turned on the water and he stripped and got in. While he stood there, shaking with his arms wrapped around his body, I called my cleaning woman and asked her to bring her crew by his house this afternoon. I offered her extra pay to order groceries and box up Carolina’s clothes and things and store them in the spare room.

I found his paraphernalia in a box under the bed and I put it with my coat in the hall. Then I located his wallet and emptied his debit cards and cash, stowing them away in my pocket. When I returned to the bathroom, I found he’d managed to clean himself and wash his hair. He stood by the sink, holding his razor in his shaking fingers.

“No need to shave,” I said. “Put your shorts on and get in bed. There’s a cleaning crew coming, so keep your ass in this room. You’ll find groceries in the fridge later.”

Amadeo didn’t speak as he lay down on the fresh sheets. He just stared up at the ceiling and shivered, ignoring the glass of ice water on his bedside table. I sighed, unsure if I wanted to offer him sympathy or kick his ass into next week. Instead, I walked out of the room, took the box, and left the townhouse.

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