Page 47 of Auctioned To Her Dad's Mafia Enemies

She tenses but doesn’t respond. She knows aswell as I do, there’s no changing the past.

“Will you go back there?” Antonio asks. “Afterthis is over.”

Her head swivels quickly to scan hisexpression, but he’s looking directly at me when he says it. He’s given herhope that her leaving us is an inevitability, a surety, so that she feelsconfident of her safety. We haven’t discussed it, but Antonio has made hisfeelings clear. If Carlo doesn’t come forward, our lust for revenge doesn’textend to his daughter.

The relief that spills through me makes nosense. Only revenge should give me this feeling. Only the tying up of loosestrings. Not the idea that this beautiful woman will be allowed to fly freefrom our hands and return to her boring life of drudgery and self-sacrifice.

The room falls into silence again, but thistime it’s not tense. Something else has taken its place. Something likeunderstanding. Like an easy kind of peace. In one sentence Antonio has broughtAemelia to our side.

Alexis yawns. “If you bastards snore, I swearto God…”

Aemelia lets out a quiet surprised laugh andfor a moment, the weight pressing on all of us feels a little lighter.

***

Sleep has never come easy for me. My brothersseem to tumble into rest like kids rolling down a hill, effortless andunconscious, while my mind refuses to shut off. The room is dark but not sodark that I can’t make out the shape of Aemelia beneath her blankets. Herbreathing is steady and even, and I marvel at her ability to sleep between us,at the level of trust she must feel to do so.

Trust we don’t deserve.

Or maybe it’s just exhaustion.

I lay back against the pillows, hands behindmy head, staring up at the cracked ceiling. We had never lived in a house likethis—small, cozy, with walls too close together, forcing intimacy. I nevershared a room with my brothers. My father's sense of pride in providing a houselarge enough for us each to have our own space eclipsed the childhoodexperience of growing up together in close quarters and the comfort that comeswith it.

Solitude is something I was forced to growcomfortable with, not something that comes naturally. The need to have mybrothers close is a secret I keep. Maybe they feel the same way. All I know isthat no woman has ever come between us, and nothing in this business has everchallenged our unity.

But Antonio made a unilateral decisiontonight, one he should have discussed with us before communicating, and for thefirst time, I can see how Aemelia might have already created a fissure in thefoundation we’ve built.

But it’s only a fissure if I disagree.

And I don’t. Maybe the fissure comes fromwatching a woman, one who’s barely been in our lives, change my brother. When Ithink of Antonio’s gentle hands in her hair, I let out a ragged breath. Thatquestion Aemelia asked earlier about what we would have been like if we hadn’tbeen born into this life still lingers in my mind.

There’s no walking away so what’s the point inthinking about it.

Aemelia stirs, then whimpers. It’s not loudenough to wake my brothers, but it slides through me like a blade. She whimpersagain, her hands gripping the sheets, her feet shifting under the blankets.She’s having a nightmare. I push up to my knees and crawl from my mattress intothe gap between her and Antonio.

Her hair is still tangled, despite his carefulhands, and I push it back from her face. “Aemelia,” I whisper, my lips close toher ear. “You’re dreaming. It’s just a dream.”

She moans, twisting, her eyelids flutteringfrantically. “Aemelia,” I say again, firmer this time. “Wake up.”

Her eyes shoot open, wide, and unfocusedbefore settling on me. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “You were dreaming.”

I stroke her cheek gently, her skin impossiblysoft beneath my calloused fingers. When her eyes brim with tears, my bodyreacts with instinct. I tug her against me, holding her close.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s nothing. It’sgone.”

“Luca?” she whispers, small and unsure.

“Yeah, kitten. It’s me.” Even as I say it, Iexpect her to pull away. Instead, she burrows against my body, like she’sseeking warmth and safety, her tears bleeding through my thin shirt. I holdher, trying not to think about how I might be part of the nightmare stillhaunting her.

I stroke her hair, adjusting so I’m lying onthe edge of her mattress and she’s pressed against me. She won’t stop crying,and I don’t know how to fix it. When I was a kid, my mama used to sing alullaby, one I loved, so I singLaSimizinaas softly as I can, like a whisper, the wordsbrushing against the crown of her head, and she listens, and her breathingslows. She quiets in my arms.

When I’m finished, she whispers. “What does itmean?”

I think for a moment, then admit, “I neverthought about the words much,” I say. “My Italian is rusty.”

“Mine, too,” she murmurs, her voice small butsteady.

“Are you okay now?”

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