Page 45 of The One
God, I want to comfort her, but first, I need to make sure Antonio understands there’s no way he’s taking her with him.
“Mariella isn’t going anywhere. Your Don has entrusted me with her welfare. She’s on my property. Need I go on?”
There shouldn’t be any challenge from him. Still, his fists clench and unclench, the veins in his neck ticking with irritation. I watch as his jaw flexes, and I can almost hear the grinding of his teeth as he struggles to get his anger in check.
“Do not forget your place, Antonio. You’ve served our family for a long time. You’re next in line for consigliere. Don’t screw it up now,” I say, my tone firm.
The unspoken threat hangs in the air, and he understands it loud and clear.
He throws one last withering look his daughter’s way. I’m glad her gaze is still fixed on the ground, and she misses the menace and promise of retribution embedded in his eyes.
Jesus, this isn’t an enemy. This is his fucking daughter.
“Romeo, accompany Antonio to the boardroom and listen to what he came here to share,” I instruct my best friend, my eyes never leaving the man in front of me. Antonio’s tension is palpable, but I’m not giving him an inch.
Then I add, “Tiero returned to Sicily this morning. That is where you should be.”
My words are deliberate, leaving no room for argument, a subtle reminder of who holds the power here.
Antonio doesn’t look at me again as he storms past, disappearing from sight. Rom lifts an eyebrow, gives a brief nod in silent understanding, and follows the enraged capo without a word.
With her father gone, Mariella sinks to the ground, her legs giving out as if they can no longer hold her. She covers her face with her hands, long dark strands of hair falling around her like a curtain, hiding her away as silent sobs rack her body.
I crouch in front of her, torn between the need to comfort her and the lingering fury burning through my veins. Crying women normally don’t affect me, and it’s always been easy to stay detached, but seeing her like this?
My chest tightens painfully, and there’s a strange ache in the pit of my stomach, as if her pain is radiating through me.
“Mariella, look at me,” I say as soothingly as the tension in me allows.
I’m not used to feeling like this, so helpless, unsure of how to make things right. My hands twitch, wanting to reach out and pull her close, but I hesitate, unsure if that’s what she needs.
But it’s whatIneed.
I lift her off the ground as gently as I can and carry her the few steps to the wooden bench beneath the orange tree with branches full of life and color. The rich green leaves and clusters of ripening oranges seem almost too vibrant, a sharp contrast to the girl in my arms, who seems so lifeless it alarms me.
She didn’t protest when I picked her up, didn’t react at all. Her body hasn’t stopped shaking. It tells me just how deep in shock she must be.
I sit down with her in my arms, cradling her close to my chest. I rock us; the movement meant to comfort her, but I realize I’m doing it as much to calm myself.
Slowly, the anger and adrenaline ebb, my heart rate gradually settling back into its normal rhythm. Mariella’s sobs slow too, her body no longer trembling uncontrollably. I feel her relaxing and melting into me.
A strange, unfamiliar sense of rightness sneaks in. It’s comforting.
Somehow, I don’t mind sitting here like this with her, beneath the dense canopy of the tree my father planted when he learned my mother was pregnant with my sister. She never lived to see the world, but now it seems almost fitting that this girl should find refuge under the same tree.
I don’t want to speak, don’t want to break this moment. But I’m also aware I need to check on her injuries. The reminder that she got hurt on my watch makes my muscles tense all over again.
“Are you okay?” I ask, keeping my voice as soft as I can.
At the sound of it, Mariella stiffens, her breath hitching. It’s as if my words shattered the bubble around us, yanking us both back to reality and forcing us to face where we are and what just happened.
She pushes away from me, slipping off my lap and onto the bench beside me. The loss of her warmth and the weight of her body pressed against mine registers instantly. It leaves a sudden void I don’t like at all.
Her eyes are fixed on the ground, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she’s holding herself together, as if loosening her grip might make her shatter.
“Mariella?” I murmur, my voice even gentler now, coaxing, hoping she’ll look at me.
But she doesn’t.
