Page 39 of I Would Die For You

“You are Stefano’s anchor in this storm, Kaya. Don’t toss him to the waves before he’s okay.”

I made a promise in that car, which I’m now upholding.

My gaze travels across the expanse of this gathering to find Stefano. He’s standing to the right of Valentino, one pace behind him. The lineup of siblings extends at the front.

One thing that’s striking seeing all the Andrettis like this is how this lot has sure won the genetic lottery. Every brother is hotter than the other. Valentino is the epitome of tall, dark, and broodingly handsome, with his unruly black hair and those piercing deep blue eyes. The next one in the lineup is the second eldest, Luciano. Also with the unruly hair, but with clean-cut features, his jawline always appearing freshly shaved, leaner with the physique of a swimmer.

Then comes the true stunner, Franco. Sharp features that look like they could cut glass, perfect stubble on that hewn-from-marble jawline, same blue eyes yet more striking with his deep-set gaze. He’s like dialing up the hotness factor on boy-next-door Luciano, their resemblance akin to twins. The youngest brother, Victor, strikes by his sheer size even though he’s also got the staggeringly beautiful looks. He resembles a small mountain, the hardness of his frame and features softened somewhat by his intense eyes which convey come-hither more than I’ll-smash-you-with-a-finger-alone.

Next is the outlier—the baby of the family and the only girl, Francesca. She looks nothing like her brothers. In fact, Stefano could pass for her sibling, their eyes the same clear hazel. She’s no less a stunner, though, that crystalline skin, full lips, and long red hair marking her as a siren who could get and doom any man she wants.

Closing the front-row lineup is an older man who has his arm around Francesca’s shoulders. I’ve heard her calling himPadrino, so he’s her godfather, not her man. Antonio is his name, I think, and he’s been around a lot, always in the vicinity of Valentino when he’s home. In his fifties, suave though not sleazy, more than a ladies’ man: a player is how I’d describe him. But the family seems to hang on to his every word, so he must be someone important to them.

There’s another man who sticks to Valentino almost like glue here, and today, he’s standing to the side, slightly behind Stefano. He’s dark-haired with grey eyes and the gorgeous features of a teenage heartthrob grown into a magnificent man. He tends to keep to himself, and we haven’t been introduced so far. It’s clear, though, he’s as much a part of this family as blood members.

It's always a heart-clenching moment when the time comes for the departed one’s near and dear to approach his lowered casket and drop a handful of dirt on it before moving away. My feet stay glued even though people are starting to leave, unable to tear my eyes from Stefano as he takes his turn to say a few words while dribbling soil on his late uncle’s coffin.

The Andretti brothers are leaving, all of them falling over their sister like a protective mantle wrapping around her.

Seeing Stefano left behind, my chest starts to ache, and I can’t help it when my feet start in his direction and I’m there beside him, placing a tentative hand on his upper arm.

“It’s me,” I say softly when he jumps slightly at the contact.

“Kaya.” He blinks down at me, his gaze coming to rest on my face.

It’s almost like he didn’t expect to find me here. Like he’s entirely alone in the world.

The clenching in my chest, it implodes now, collapsing everything inside that cavity.

I’m here, Stefano.

But I’m not, am I? I’m staying back in the US, and he’s leaving for Torino again.

We’re not going to be together again.

Why does it hurt so much to reckon this? We were drifting away, him and me. There was no future for us, not after he became the Don’s enforcer. That man took my precious Stefano away and left a husk of that beautiful being behind. Me and him, we were slowly snuffing the life out of each other. How much longer would we have held on?

When his hand comes up to clasp my jaw, everything inside me stills. My mind stops galloping a mile a minute, and the warmth of his touch, the strength of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingers, they all ground me in this moment. In him.

“Stefano?” someone calls.

The spell is broken, and we both turn to find one of the Andretti siblings calling us. Clean-cut good looks of an angel: it’s Luciano.

Stefano’s strong jaw clenches, and his hand is flexing and closing as it drops from my cheek. Luciano is still waiting for us, though, and we can’t hold them back. Buoyed by the feel of his touch on my face, I risk grasping his hand, breathing out a sigh of relief when he lets me thread our fingers together.

Strange how normal it feels to be joined like this. We’ve strolled hand in hand a few times in Torino, shoulders brushing in the tiny passageways of the flea market they call theBalonthere. Still, it pains me to have this silent man with me now. I miss his spirit, his vivaciousness, his wit, the way some words came slightly off when he put his Italian thoughts into English words to converse with me.

We’re dying, me and him, and how bittersweet to realize this even more poignantly at a funeral, of all places. Yet, I can’t let him go. So I stay by his side, and we gravitate around each other all afternoon at the subdued reception happening at the big house. Little by little, we’re left among the house dwellers as everyone leaves. The family needs privacy for this, so I take it as my cue to head up to my room.

Stefano surprises me by not releasing my hand as I start out of the main room. Silently, we ascend the stairs and close the door to our room, shutting out the world behind us.

Here, in this enclosed bubble, our hands fall away. It hurts. I don’t even have a scale anymore to gauge the levels; I just know it’s hurting like hell. One step, two, and I’m walking away from him where he still stands near the door.

It’s over now. The funeral’s happened—I have no more reason to stay. I’ve upheld my promise to the Don.

Fuck if I want to leave now. Faced with this inevitability, I’m starting to ask myself a single question that’s gaining strength to blink like a distracting Times Square marquee at me.

What have I done?

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