from the oncoming cars brightened the dark amber of his eyes to honey, which contrasted with the hard look on his face.
“What did I say?” I whispered.
“Nothing,” he said. “Not a thing.”
“Your face. It changed.” I looked out of the window for a second and then turned to face him. “What would be a perfect ending to you, Corrado?”
“At one time—going with my suit on.”
Ah. Dying as he was. Who he was.
“Has that changed?”
“Some.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Sometimes I see the pistachio groves.”
“In the evenings,” I said. “The weather warm. The sun going down. The world amber. On fire. Burning through the rest of the day to have a fresh start.”
“Morning,” he said. “The beginning of another day. Not the ending of it. Still gold but in a fresher way. Cooler.”
He took my hand as he continued to drive, and we became quiet. He took me to the Met, the opera—La Bohème—and instead of watching the stage, I watched him. His eyes flicked to mine every so often, and that mysterious pull between us had us reaching out—a slide of a hand, a touch of a fingertip, the feel of a warm kiss against cool skin in the darkened theater.
He was even quieter on the way home, but his hold on my hand was tighter.
My heart beat faster. My stomach felt hollow. I felt weak deep inside, but the same on the outside.
What was he thinking?
“Do you know why I ran for so long?” I said.
“Tell me.”
I sighed. “To have this. To have you. To have the ending in the grove. Or anywhere, as long as you and Ele are with me.” I brought his hand up to my mouth, kissing his fingers. “We all deserve that, Corrado,” I whispered. “That is what we work to achieve in life. No matter what life tries to do, we must rise above it and fight for the ending we want. Once the years go, they go. There is no getting them back. But that is why we have the future. To look forward to. A new day, each day, so that we are ready for the evenings when they come.”
The house came into view. We pulled up. Got out. Walked hand in hand. My cool one against his warm one. We checked on Ele once inside. We smiled at how she was sleeping. Her mouth open. Little hands with beautiful fingers next to her head.
We showered together, and after, he slipped on a pair of sweatpants and told me he would meet me in the bedroom.
I did the usual things, and before I finished, I heard the radio playing. The same song we danced to after our wedding.
He pulled me into his arms when I asked him what he was up to. No answer came. None had to.
We moved like we did that night. We kissed like we did that night.
He took me to bed after, his eyes intense on mine, the look in them hard to describe. Consuming was the only word that seemed to make sense. His palms slid against mine, our fingers interweaved, and he took his time, moving slow. A tear dripped from my eye, and he leaned down and used his tongue to dry it. His lips kissed down to my mouth, kissing me in the same rhythm he had created between us. There was nothing rough about what he was doing to me, yet he was ripping away everything that had ever belonged to me only—mind, body, heart, and soul.
After, I placed my body as close as possible to his. My hands searched his skin, memorizing every line, every dip, every indention. Then I stuck my claws in, refusing to forget each and every one.
I wondered how his childhood was. I wondered how many hugs and kisses he got. I wondered what it was like growing up in the shadow of one of the greatest Dons that ever lived, according to anyone that ever spoke of Emilio Capitani. I wondered how it felt to know that your grandfather would not stop a man from killing you if you made a mistake. Because rules were rules. I wondered how it felt to learn secret after secret about a family that was destroyed by them.
I wondered how it felt to be my husband.
I wondered if he would ever tell me what it meant to be him.
I wondered if I would ever get the chance to ask, and to have him answer me without the binds