Page 17 of Till Death Do Us Part

How cold and hard his eyes were, but how warm and alive he felt when he touched me.

It was Monday morning, and I was paying for the restless night. I was thankful to be returning to work, though. I needed something to shift my focus because Felice Maggio was burning a lot of mental miles. I even stumbled coming down the steps at Babbo’s. I was tired and not paying attention.

The big house held a chill, but the smell of coffee and woodsmoke from the fireplace seemed to make it more comfortable. I headed toward the kitchen, expecting to see Babbo at the table. I found it empty. I made myself two pieces of toast with avocado, then I poured myself a cup of coffee. I took my plate and mug to the sunroom with me.

Besides the kitchen, it was Mamma’s favorite room in the house. She could sit in there for hours, especially during spring, when her garden would start to bloom. She’d always have a cup or glass of something with her, along with a book. She’d always tell us, “If you have access to a book, you can’t complain about being bored.” That was why the sunroom had a small library.

Lo was sitting on the sofa with a mug of her own, staring out the windows. It was a depressing sight because the garden was dead. The prettiest thing about the scene was the burnt colors of fall decorating the trees and ground.

What was even more painful was how Lo and I had gone from being tight to having miles of distance between us.

On the surface, everything seemed normal. We made small talk, ate together, even if in silence, but I could feel the separation. When those assholes had broken us, they had damaged our relationship. We were the only two left in Babbo’s house, and that bonded us. But it seemed like ever since the attack, she blamed herself, and she didn’t want to face me.

“Hey,” I said, taking a seat next to her. I set my plate and mug down on the table, grabbing a soft blanket from the back of the sofa. I got comfortable, settling in. I refused to let her shy away from me.

“Hey,” she whispered, but she refused to look at me. She kept looking at the dead garden.

Her hair was drab, and she had dark circles under her eyes.

“You think you’ll ever try to bring it back?” I nodded toward the graveyard. It was nothing but wilted and shriveled plants and flowers. Isabella had tried to revive it, but with no luck.

“No,” Lo said, and I could tell that was her final answer.

“Me either.” I sighed. As depressing as it was, it was Mamma’s, and the yard seemed to know that.

She glanced at me and then looked forward again. “Going back to work?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s time.”

She nodded, and after a little back and forth about it, we both became quiet. We got lost in the silence we created. It wasn’t peaceful. It was almost as loud as our screams had been that night. The fracture was there, trying to divide us, but we were too hardheaded to let it.

When we’d fight, Mamma would always remind us that we were all we had. It was a guilt trip, but it worked.

“I don’t blame you,” I blurted, but it came out soft. It had to be said, and I was sick and tired of feeling like my sister was slipping away from me.

“Not even a little?”

I stared at the profile of her face. After I grabbed her hand and squeezed, she met my eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks.

“I don’t blame you at all for what happened that night. But Idoblame you for me being Miss Illinois.”

She wasn’t expecting that. Her shoulders tensed before she laughed. I did, too, pulling her in for a hug.

Pulling away, but not far, she wiped her face. “I wasn’t the only one who pushed you to do it.”

“True.” I sighed. “That was collective family pressure, but you started it.”

“Mamma did! I just—”

“Took it to another level? Yeah, you did.”

“You won, didn’t you?”

“How could I forget?”

She smiled and it was mischievous, a little more like herself. “Do you really regret it?”

“Sometimes.” Like when leather-clad blondes singled me out in a crowd, calling me Miss Chicago.

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