Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Heidi.” I reach over and take her hand. “What will I do without you?”
She takes my hand between both of hers. “You’ll do just fine.” She adds with a smile, “Like I always knew you would.”
I swallow the lump that gets stuck in my throat. “When?”
“As soon as Mr. Russo signs the retirement paperwork.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I wanted to speak to you first.”
“You deserve to put your feet up for a change and to do nothing but drink champagne with all those widowers on their fancy yachts.”
She raises a brow. “I hope you’ll come to visit?”
“As soon as I can twist Angelo’s rubber arm.”
She pats my hand before letting go. “I’ll be off next week then.”
“So soon?” I ask, disappointed and a bit fearful. I not only love her like a friend, but I also came to depend on her.
“I reckon Doris can do with a bit of space and privacy.”
“There’s no rush,” I say quickly.
She stands. “No, but I’m eager to enjoy my life savings.”
Yes. She’s right. She deserves that and so much more.
Everything is going to be fine.
I relax a little. “I understand.”
And just like that, one week later, the house is full yet empty with Heidi and my family gone. Just Angelo and me are left now to pick up the pieces and build a new life.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Angelo
* * *
The first step in laying down the cornerstone of building a new life is tearing down the old one.
I wait until Sabella is strong enough before I drive her to the new house. She’s apprehensive in the car. Her hands lie still and relaxed next to her on the seat, but her body is tense.
Wrapping my fingers around hers, I take my eyes off the road for a second to smile at her. Despite the turmoil churning in her soft, honey-brown gaze, she returns the gesture like the brave woman she is.
I place her hand on my thigh to change gears before cupping it again.
I hate taking her there.
I hate putting her through this.
But she needs to face this hurdle before she can move on.
We both need to.
She stares through the window, withdrawing into herself. I sense it without having to look at her. Gently bringing her back to the present—to me—I rub my thumb over her knuckles. I want to tell her it’s going to be fine. I want to tell her we’ll tear down every obstacle that comes our way. There’s no question about it. After surviving what we did, there’s nothing we can’t conquer. Yet I say nothing. Some words are redundant. The connection between us runs too deep. After living through what we have, we know each other’s thoughts and feelings.
I check in the rearview mirror to make sure the convoy follows. I’m not taking my wife anywhere without an army of guards. The SUVs trail behind us in a cloud of dust. Another car has already gone ahead. My men would’ve scouted the area before we arrive.
The graveyard with its sturdy crosses comes into view. The branches of genista corsica bushes that grow in the rocky soil stoop under the weight of their yellow flowers. The spring scenery is different to the winter landscape I introduced Sabella to, but some memories grow roots that cling to the season in which they were made, not allowing the sun to break through the stark, cold darkness of an unforgiving winter.
That’s why I decided to bring her here—to cut out those roots and to hack off the thorny branches that throw shadows over her heart.
When the house appears in the distance, she goes rigid. So do I. It’s futile to try not to show her. She knows me better than anyone, even better than my twin knew me.
“All right?” I ask, drawing soothing circles over the back of her hand.
Her fingers tighten on my thigh before she pulls her shoulders straight and says, “Yes.”
That’s my girl.
I park next to the path but don’t get out to open her door. I give her a couple of seconds, allowing her to find her bearings and to process her feelings.
I clench the wheel hard. The urge to turn the car around and drive to any other destination is huge. The only reason I cut the engine is because this is the only path to healing. I didn’t consult a psychiatrist this time, but I feel it in my gut.
“Ready?” I ask in a gentle tone.
She nods.
I scan the surroundings by habit as I exit and go around the car to get her door. When I offer a hand to help her out, she places her palm in mine. Intertwining our fingers, I keep her close to me as I lead her to the edge of the path.
She tilts her face to look up at the house. I follow her gaze. What does she see? Bitter memories built on mistakes or an unbreakable bond that refused to be destroyed? What I see is strength and courage. A beautiful, remarkable woman. One of a kind. There’s no one like her.