Page 36 of My Solemn Vow
Valor Cavanagh,theValor Cavanagh, makes me feelsomething.He’s not outwardly warm, and the pictures I’ve seen over the years confirm it’s him, but they don’t do his devilish good looks justice. They don’t capture the bright fire in his eyes nor the way he keeps his hair well kept. And pictures can’t convey the thick smell of warmth that comes from him. It’s heady like bourbon but sweet like chocolate.
I feel a connection to him. Maybe it’s blatant attraction and the relief of being safe clouding my mind, but I don’t know that Valor Cavanagh really is the worst man to be married to.
Graveside, the mother of the decedent, Sean, told me how grateful she is to have me in her family and that someone was able to pick up the duty when her son couldn’t. I wanted to weep with her.
I’d never met him, never known him, only saw him in passing, but anyone who comes from a woman with such grace in adversity must have a heart of gold as well.
During Sean’s graveside service, I meandered and mingled with his family and their close friends. The Irish aren’t as many cousins and uncles and nephews deep as we are, but it’s built more on chosen family. Maybe that’s what makes them more accepting of someone new from the outside world and why they extend kindness instead of judgment.
The divine providence that put me in this position had me dreading ‘going home’ all over again.
My ‘family’ is cold.
Valor and I sat together in the third row during the service.
My cousin, a fourth cousin from Aunt Francesca’s side, was killed on an undisclosed, to me, job. We weren’t close. Having only seen him a few times a year, I was apathetic to his passing.
By now, everyone knows I was the one who stood in the way of family business. They all knew the day it happened because gossip travels fast in an Italian family. The silent treatment, the scornful sideways glances, and flat-out snubs were to be expected.
They’re pissed at me for ending this war. I’m not sure they even know the reason I interfered was because of an innocent child, but a family quick to anger and staunch in tradition won’t see the turning tides of life as anything but a tsunami.
But their disappointment is nothing new. It fills me with useless indifference.
Valor held my hand through every second of the service he could. We’re practically attached at the hip, and the lack ofemotions I feel toward my family is drowned out by the stiffness and simmering anger toward the circumstances that have led us here.
The ride back across the cities into the suburbs of Chicago wasn’t long. We’re in Barrington at St. Patrick’s Catholic Cemetery. It’s the heart of Irish territory.
Blessedly, the burial wasn’t all that long, and they lowered my cousin into the ground twenty minutes after our arrival at the most. But the fifteen minutes we’ve been standing graveside, being offered condolences, has felt like a lifetime.
Leticia is the only friendly face in the crowd. However, the minute I got too close to her, she held her fingers low by her waist, crossing them, as if to say wish for something good, and then separated them. Our secret gesture we use to tell each other when it’s not a good time to talk.
I know she’s not upset with me because when I walked past her, she brushed her pinkie against mine, a solidarity of our pinkie promise to always be friends. But it’s pointless to be here.
Valor tried to branch off on his own, but every time he does, it’s clear those loyal to Gregorio D’Medici are not receptive. They step away from him, denying all attempts at conversation.
Now, he wraps his arm around me, drawing me close as if to console me for a hug. He bows his head, bringing it to my ear, and whispers, “I’m getting the distinct feeling we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
“It’s not just me, then.” I let out a slow breath, whispering back to him.
He releases me from the partial hug and grabs my wrist. It’s less gruff than when he did it at Sean’s grave site. This time it’s almost caring. When I pull back, he lets me slide through his fingers until my hand is intertwined with his.
Valor looks down at our joined hands with the tiniest change in his demeanor — raised eyebrow, parted lips that threaten a smile, and a slight head nod. It sends butterfliesthroughout my body from where our hands are linked straight to my stomach, where the fluttering is concentrated. Our eyes meet, and his look is dark and full of desire.
I don’t know that Valor will ever fully approve of me, but he sure as hell can’t be worse to live with than the D’Medici family. Especially when he looks at me like that.
“There you two are.” Berto’s voice breaks us out of our little bubble.
Berto uses his ‘I’m about to take a beautiful day and ruin it with a fist fight’ tone.
I immediately shift, giving Valor my back to face Berto.Maybe if I’m between the two of them, this won’t escalate.
“Valor, it’s good to have bested you.” Berto offers his hand out to shake, which wouldn’t be problematic, but Valor’s right hand is wrapped up in my left and tucked between us.
Valor doesn’t make it an issue. He runs his free hand around my waist, pulling me closer and pressing my back against his chest, then releases my hand.
“I would like to say good job, Berto, but it looks like I’m the one with a wife.” Valor doesn’t let Berto win, but he does shake his hand.
I bring my left hand up and touch the one he has wrapped around my stomach. At my touch, though, Valor’s grasp relaxes slightly. The constant touch, a sign of ownership, will further his appearance of claiming me.
