Mafia Casanova

Anything.

It could have been one minute, four days, or two months that had passed in front of my swollen eyes at the speed of a lightning strike. There was no saying how long I stood there staring at Tristian’s casket. If my puffy eyes and shivering body were any indications, I would have guessed a few hours. Time just seemed to stand still while my whole world shattered all around me.

Piece by piece.

One by one.

Now there would be nothing left of me.

Not the woman Tristian loved, married, had a son with. All they saw was a hollow shell of a person they used to know, holding onto the hope that I’d be that woman again. She was somewhere deep inside of me.

Hiding.

Scared.

Ceasing to exist.

Except I tried to pretend I wasn’t there. I tried to imagine that my life hadn’t been changed in a matter of seconds. That my whole world hadn’t been turned upside down and inside out in the span of a few hours. That everything I wanted to believe in wasn’t truly…

Another lie that would bring Tristian back.

It wouldn’t.

He was dead.

And nobody knew why.

His choices.

Mine.

Ours.

Good ones.

Bad ones.

It all spun together, forming a catalyst of chaos and questions with no answers.

There were no do-overs, no matter how much I tried to reach those invisible lines and put them back in order, fixing what was broken.

I couldn’t.

We were happy.

Weren’t we?

I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. I’d never prayed for this. My husband had been buried today, six feet under, where I would never see him again.

Not one smile.

Not one laugh.

Not one, “I love you.”

I tightly shut my eyes, listening to the rain beat down on me.

And then, I suddenly felt him behind me.

Everything about him hurt.

His composure, his scent, especially his love for me.

For us.

“I’m sorry, Red. I’m so fucking sorry,” he stressed in a tone that was filled with nothing but pain and remorse.

Guilt rolled off him; he radiated it. Consuming and bleeding into me. Holding me hostage, captive in the arms of a man who threw me into his brother’s bed.

I could feel it engulfing me, making it hard to breathe.

Hard to think.

Hard to feel.

Right now, at this moment.

My life ended in the arms of Romeo.

While men from all over New York City stopped by to show their respect to one of the most powerful families in the Sicilian Mafia.

I leaned into his embrace, trying to shove the guilt from the last fight between Tristian and me.

It was always the same.

Jealousy—the chip on his shoulder.

And working too much—the chip on mine.

I never believed it would come to this, that our last fight, our last words would be the end of us. I’d let him slam the door. I’d screamed after him in frustration.

There had been no goodbye kiss.

No kind words.

Just destruction.

And now, desolation.

Romeo was the last person I wanted to see. To feel. To have comforting me.

He would always and forever be the chasm between Tristian and me. The one bridge both of us refused to build, to cross.

“I’m sorry, Red,” he repeated.

“I know.” I barely got the word out before clenching my teeth back together to keep from sobbing again, to keep from screaming Tristian’s name like it would bring him back.

Romeo tugged me closer into the side of his body, and for the first time in years, I felt nothing for the man who once meant everything.

“For what it’s worth,” he whispered into my ear. “I didn’t want this for him.”

I didn’t want to feel his heat.

His life.

His steady heartbeat.

I didn’t want the reminder that his brother—my husband was dead, and he was still very much alive.

Our eyes locked.

I hissed, “Leave.”

“No.”

Unable to hold back any longer, I spit fire, “It should have been you.” My voice cracked. “Do you hear me? It should have been you.”

“You’re right.” He tensed. “And you know I would have taken his place over and over again just to see you happy.”

“I can’t—” I sucked in a breath. “—I can’t breathe, I can’t—”

Romeo turned and pulled me into his chest. “Breathe, in and out, there you go, in and out, Red.”

Somehow the pressure against my chest gave me something to feel, to measure my breaths against; I clutched his hand and inhaled, exhaled.

That’s all that existed in that moment, sucking air in and letting it out until my body finally collapsed under the weight of grief. I fell to the ground, taking him with me. Slumping against Romeo’s chest, he wrapped his arms around me tight.

“What do you need?”

His question brought me back to another place and time when he had asked me that same thing. I peered up through my lashes. Water dripped from his sharp chin.

I counted the drops.

And then I said, “I want you to find whoever killed Tristian, and I want them to suffer. I want them to bleed and beg for mercy. I want you to torture them until they die from your hands. When you’re done, I want you to come find me and show me their blood on your hands.”