Page 72 of Until You Break
He arched a brow, teasing. “And when don’t you?”
I changed quick into a black suit, same cut. His gaze followed me the whole time, chin propped on his hand, eyes amused like he liked watching me hurry. When I straightened the cuff, he rose, smoothed his jacket, and stepped close. Side by side, we looked matched. Intentional. I felt the brush of his sleeve against mine, the subtle tremor in his hand that he tried to hide. I caught his chin, bent, and pressed a brief kiss to his mouth before we moved toward the door together.
“Matching suits,” he said softly, his smile crooked. “Like a pair.”
“Like mine,” I corrected, brushing my knuckles over his wrist. “Always mine.” The shiver that ran through him was small but real, and I filed it away with satisfaction, an urge sparking under my tongue to bite the smile right off his mouth and wear the mark on him into the night.
We left the room together, footsteps echoing on marble. Nonna stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed in her best black silk, hair pinned high, diamonds winking at her ears. She muttered something about men taking too long, her voice sharp as ever, and Emilio frowned at her, surprised to see her so carefully turned out. A cousin chased her with her shawl, calling that she was late. She waved him off with regal irritation and swept out ahead of us. Emilio’s smile cracked into laughter, shaking his head, and I watched the warmth break across his face like sunlight.
Evening heat clung close as we stepped outside, sea salt drifting in with the traffic. The car moved slow through the old streets, windows catching music from balconies and the smell of roasting chestnuts from corners. Emilio kept his sketchpad on his lap, fingers restless, gaze shifting from lit façades to the blur of scooters. He leaned toward the glass, eyes caught by a building lit from within, then sat back with a nervous laugh.I watched the twitch at his mouth, the way his knee pressed against mine as if grounding himself.
The city’s stone glowed with the last light, palaces black against the sky, domes cutting sharp against the red horizon. The car slid to a stop before an old church, its columns scarred by salt wind and time, windows remade with smoked glass catching lamplight. Fresh plaster and polished marble had turned the ruin into elegance, and my crest glimmered above the new doors, etched deep into the glass.
Emilio lifted his chin, eyes narrowing as he took it in, the façade towering above him. His gaze caught on the engraving above the glass doors.
Galleria di Memoriawas written in letters cut deep, gilded to shine under the lamps. Awareness flickered across his face, wonder and disbelief tangling, before he tore his eyes away to me. “Where are we?”
“Home,” I told him, and watched the breath catch in his chest as the doors groaned open, silence stretching for a heartbeat before the world inside erupted.
Applause. Music struck up, strings bright over the hum of voices. Champagne flutes glittered, raised high. Camera flashes popped, white heat stinging the air. Laughter rang out, warm and sharp. Guests in silk and tuxedo turned toward him as one, smiles breaking, voices carrying his name. A party already alive, waiting only for him to step inside.
Emilio stopped dead, the heat of the spotlight pressing on his face, the sharp scent of fresh varnish mingling with perfume in the air, shock flashing across his face before a smile tugged at his mouth, unsteady but real. His curls caught the light like copper wire, his hazel eyes wide and shining. “What is this?” he breathed, half laughing, half undone.
I caught his waist, felt his jacket pull tight under my palm, kissed him hard enough that the room blurred. “This is for you,piccolino. Your dream. Your gallery.” His breath hitched against my mouth, and for a moment I felt him sag into me before he straightened, pride locking his spine. Good. Let them see who puts his hands on you. Let them learn the shape of my claim.
"Oh, Damiano...I can't...you shouldn't..." His eyes welled, voice cracking as his hand clutched my sleeve, a curl falling loose across his brow. I caught him hard against me, my grip fierce, as if the sound of his breaking words belonged only in my chest.
The crowd cheered louder. Glasses clinked, congratulations spilled from every side—bravo, artista, bellissimo. Perfume thickened the air, sweet and heady against the crisp bite of champagne. Lights caught on polished marble, on canvases hung high across the walls—his canvases. His work glowed like fire, like confession turned to gold.
I watched his throat work, the way his fingers twitched toward the nearest painting and then curled into his palm instead. His eyes widened, chest rising sharp. He spun, taking in each piece—his mother’s hands, trembling lines breaking the brush; Enzo’s fists, rough and smudged; Salvatore’s jaw, half-finished; a skyline cut with smoke. Emotion stormed his face, awe and disbelief warring until both broke into laughter edged with tears.
“How did you—how are they here?” His voice cracked, breaking against the noise. “My paintings?—”
“We helped,” a voice answered from behind the crowd.
And then he saw them.
Salvatore. Enzo. Standing just beyond the ring of silk and champagne, suits clean, jaws set but eyes already breaking. They moved at once. Salvatore’s hand cupped the back of his head, folding him in. Enzo’s arms wrapped tight, lifting him off the ground for a breath before setting him down again. Emilio’s laugh cracked into a sob against their shoulders, his hands fisting in their jackets as if to prove they were real.
“You came,” he whispered.
“Of course we did,” Salvatore said, voice rough but steady.
“Always, brother,” Enzo added, jaw tight as he pulled him in again.
Emilio pressed his face into them, trembling, his breath breaking and reforming. Relief poured out of him raw, too big for words. Around them, the crowd hushed, moved by something truer than the art. Champagne fizzed in flutes, a cork burst at the bar, but the center of the night was three brothers holding each other.
Salvatore leaned in, his hand tightening on Emilio’s shoulder, Enzo’s jaw ticking as if holding back words, voice low, meant for Emilio but close enough I caught it too. “We brought your canvases. But there’s more. Things you’ll need to hear. Not tonight—tonight is yours. Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”
Enzo’s gaze slid past him to me, steady, not hostile. “The warehouses aren’t clean. And someone’s digging into Mama. It won’t go away.”
Emilio stiffened, breath hitching. Salvatore squeezed his shoulder, gentler. “But tonight. This night belongs to you.”
Emilio nodded, tears threatening once more, and they folded him in again until his shaking eased. My hand itched to pull him back, to remind him he was mine first, but I let it stand. For now. They could borrow him for a breath. He’d return to me. I memorized the way his lips pressed to his brother’s collar, how his lashes clumped with wet. Even in their arms, he was beautiful, and even then, he was still mine.
Across the room, one guest’s hands stayed still, his clap too slow, his smile too thin. He slipped out the side door before the applause ended. I marked him for later.
The party swelled around us. The doors swung again and Nonna finally arrived, fashionably late despite having swept out ahead of us. She strode in with her shawl half sliding fromher shoulders, wagged a jeweled finger at Emilio and declared, “Don’t think success makes you taller,ragazzo.” Laughter rippled through the crowd as she accepted a flute from a waiter and settled in like a queen taking her throne. Emilio’s cheeks flushed pink, and I caught the way his eyes softened, warmed by her presence.
