Sergio (Benedetti Brothers 3)
Sergio sighs, but then he walks out of the kitchen and I assume he’s gone to his study to meet with those men when I hear a door close.
I take a deep breath when he’s gone, then get back up. Taking the bowl, I get Pepper’s dinner then walk back to the counter, take the bottle of whiskey he left behind and pour myself some more. I drink and make my way to the living room.
Tonight, I feel like I have some rights here. Some authority. Because I’m realizing something. Something I’ve been processing since I met him. Something I still don’t quite understand.
I haven’t yet made the connection with what mafia life truly means. Not in the terms of real life. Of my life.
My mind wanders to what might have happened if Sergio hadn’t changed the locks on my borrowed house. Would whoever left the lilies there have broken in? Would someone have been waiting for me inside when I got home? Waiting to do me harm?
No, that’s not it. I don’t think they meant to hurt me. I think they meant to send a message to Sergio.
I’m studying the photos in the living room when I hear the study door open. Sergio’s saying something in Italian. I didn’t realize he spoke Italian, but of course he does. A few minutes later, the two men leave, and Sergio walks into the living room. I turn to face him.
“It was a message for you, wasn’t it? I don’t matter. I’m just a vehicle to get to you, aren’t I?”
He walks toward me but I halt him.
“Answer me, Sergio.”
He considers for a moment, then answers. “Yes.”
“Who did it?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, I think it might matter.”
His eyes harden a little. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Like you did Professor Dayton?”
He takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly, and closes the space between us. I don’t step back, but I want to. He takes the glass out of my hand and sets it aside. “I said I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t you think I have a right to know?”
He shifts his attention to my hand, takes it in his. He turns it over and pushes the three-quarter sleeve of my dress to my elbow. He studies the skin of my wrist, traces a vein up the inside of my arm. His touch sends shivers along my spine.
“These are my enemies, Natalie. Not yours.”
“But if they’re at my house, leaving me funeral flowers, they’re my enemies too.”
“I said I’ll take care of it and I will.”
“How?” Why am I asking? How much of this do I want to know?
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll fix it.”
I shake my head, look down at his hand, at his fingertips light as a feather as they tickle my skin. He’s watching too. Holding my small wrist in his big hand. It makes me feel vulnerable. Makes me think how easily it could be snapped. By whose enemies hardly matters. It would break all the same.
It’s strange what I’m feeling for this man whom I’ve known for only weeks. Who is dangerous. Whom I know I should run from. But thing is, I can’t imagine walking away. Can’t imagine not having him in my life.
But I’m being stupid. I can’t disregard what happened tonight, even if he ‘fixes’ it. I pull my hand free of his. “What about the next time? I’m guessing you have more than one enemy.”
I reach for my whiskey, but he recaptures my wrist and takes my glass, swallows its’ contents.
“Is this normal for you, Sergio? Normal life? Nothing out of the ordinary in someone leaving funeral flowers at your doorstep?”
He rubs the scruff of his jaw, the back of his neck. He’s looking at me but he’s in his head. I see him struggling with something. Maybe it’s the same thing I’m battling.
It takes him a long time to speak. “I have many enemies. And I don’t want it to be your normal. I’m a dangerous man. It’s dangerous for you to be with me.”
“What are you saying?”
His eyes burn. There’s so much inside them, conflict and rage and an intense darkness. An almost palpable violence.
He finally turns away, then answers. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
I go to him, touch his shoulder. “You want me to leave? Walk away? Is that what you’re telling me?”
He faces me, gives me a small smile, exhales loudly as he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s too late for that, sweetheart. I won’t let you go. That’s been the problem from day one.”
“I don’t want some man following me. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he says. “Not on this one.”
“I do. I have to. This is my life. I get a say.”
“Not when it comes to your safety,” he says, his tone harder, his eyes darker. “Don’t be naïve. You don’t know this life. This is non-negotiable.”