Lily Jenkins
He led me to the dining room and pulled out a chair for me. I sat down and he sat down across the table. The table was long but it wasn't very broad. I could smell his cologne.I could see the depth of his eyes.
"Would you like a drink?" He asked, nodding his head towards the bar.
I nodded wordlessly. He walked to the bar, his feet making no sound, he lifted the bottle, the glasses, and he did all that making no sound. He was alway silent. If I wasn't always hyper aware of his presence, I could close my eyes and pretend he wasn't there and there would be no noise to prove otherwise.
I stood and grabbed the candle I had lit, putting it on the table. He set the wine glasses down, the red liquid lit up with golden light.
"I didn't expect you to have a scented candle," I said, sitting down.
"It was a gift from Leyla," he said.
I hummed, picking up the glass. "Tell me about Pietro's brother."
"He is younger," said Dante. "Years ago, there was a vicious attack from Camorra. My brothers and I were...occupied somewhere. He killed fifteen intruders and kept one alive. He lost an arm and an eye."
I frowned. "What happened to the one left alive?"
"He rules Camorra now," he said. "Luca was loyal to Camorra, and the older son of Angelo - Camorra's capo at that time. Francesco, your uncle, thought that someone from Camorra would eventually come to rescue Luca but...no one did."
I frowned. "Where is Francesco now?"
Dante shrugged. "He lives off the grid. I can demand his location, but I don't see the use. There is no retiring in mafia, but my brothers and I decided to give him peace."
I nodded. "What about Luca? His father didn't want him?"
Dante shook his head. "No. Francesco raised Luca, as much as he could. Luca became loyal to the family and was our consigliere. When Angelo died, we helped him become Camorra's capo. His brothers backed his claim."
"What about you?" I asked. "Your...family."
"You've met my brothers."
"Parents?"
His eyes flashed. He took a sip of his wine. "Dead. Tell me about your mothers."
He said it so simply - like it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't to him.
"My mothers are both writers," I said. "They have been grossly in love with each other since they met at a bar and decided to become best friends."
He hummed. "What about Pietro?" He asked. "How did they meet?"
"My biological mom, Amanda, met Pietro on a trip. My other mom, Chelsea, was with her but they both were yet to realise their feelings. Pietro and mom happened, and then she was pregnant." I sighed. "She found out Pietro was involved in the mafia, but she pushed through the fear and decided to be with him anyway. She had always wanted to become a mother, and she thought he would become an excellent father and I would be the most protected child."
"When did it go wrong?"
I took a sip of my wine. He was listening with all his attention to me. I basked in it. "On the day of delivery, Pietro's mother tried to kill mom in the hospital. She had bribed a nurse to give mom an injection. Mom found out and went hysterical - she was already in a lot of pain. Pietro refused to accept what his mother had almost done."
I traced the edge of the glass. "He called mom a liar while she was bleeding after giving birth to me. He called her everything horrible and then, in the end, after taking one glance at me, he walked away."
He was quiet for a while. "He just...left?" He looked like he couldn't understand why one would do that.
"Yes. They went back to America and struggled for years. They didn't have enough money and my mother had nightmares about everything. Her labour had been too traumatic, and she had truly loved Pietro. Then, the book they had been working on while trying to survive, was published after being rejected from too many publishing houses." I smiled. "It was a hit almost instantly."
He gently took my hand, rubbing his thumb on my palm. "Your mothers are brave. I see where you get it from."
"I ran away from America."
"You were stuck between two cliffs, Lily. I am glad you came here. I can protect you here."
"You can't protect me forever."
He paused, his thumb brushing over my wrist, feeling the erratic pulse. "That doesn't mean I don't want to. Or that I won't try."
. . .
(3/5)