Page 73 of Until You Break
A waiter pressed a glass into Emilio’s hand, bubbles racing up the stem. Another guest clapped him on the back, spilling congratulations.
Luciana moved through the crowd, her tone brisk but warm as she paused beside Emilio, fingers giving his arm a quick squeeze, the glint in her eyes softening for once, efficient, her smile rare but real as she caught Emilio’s stunned gaze. “It’s all yours,” she said simply, and moved on.
Emilio’s throat worked and he managed a rough, earnest, “Thank you, Luciana.” He turned, searching for me immediately, as if needing to anchor himself in my face after hers. I let him find me, let him see the pride I didn’t bother to hide.
He looked at the canvases again, as if afraid they might vanish. His throat worked, glass trembling in his hand. He turned to me, whispering, “I can’t—this is too much.”
“You can,” I told him, thumb brushing his jaw. “This is only the beginning.” His pulse raced under my touch, a flutter I felt against my skin.
More faces came. Alessandro tipped his glass from the bar, amber catching the light as his smirk cut sharp across the room. Luca rested against the rail, gaze narrowed, measuring but not unkind. Nonna pressed a canapé into his palm, her wrinkled hand closing over his. “Eat, ragazzo. Art is hungry work.”
He laughed wetly, eating because she told him to. The crowd laughed with him, warmth breaking any tension left. I studied the line of his throat as he swallowed, the way his smile curved half shy, half overwhelmed.
More faces came. Alessandro lifted his glass higher this time, a silent toast that caught the eye of half the room. At the rail, Luca’s posture had not shifted—arms folded now, eyes scanning the crowd with cool appraisal. Behind him the wall stretched long and bright, every canvas lit as if from within, frames of gold and black catching the light, oil strokes raised like scars. Colors bled into one another, smoke-gray and blood-red, blue sharp as glass. The sequence told a story, grief, fists, the trembling hands of his mother, the half-finished jaw of his brother, each piece leaning into the next like confession after confession.
Others followed. Lawyers, patrons, men who smiled too wide and measured him with their eyes. Each congratulations carried weight. My mind catalogued faces, debts, favors. Hands that lingered too long would learn manners; eyes that weighed him like an object would learn the price. And all the while, my gaze returned to Emilio, to his flush, his trembling hand, the way his curls brushed his collar when he bowed his head in thanks.
Then Luca started it, his voice carrying over the crowd with his usual banter. “Speech! Let’s hear from the artista before the champagne runs out!”
Laughter followed, glasses thudding against tables, the rhythm gathering. Emilio’s throat worked, chest rising sharp. He froze, wide-eyed. His brothers leaned in closer.
I bent my head, my voice low at his ear. “Breathe. I’m here.” He swallowed hard, and still the chant swelled-half playful, half demanding, glasses lifted in rhythm.
His brothers flanked him, steadying. He looked back at me, panic flaring just once. I touched his shoulder, grounding him. Go. His pupils blew wide, but he nodded. If he faltered, I would split this room open and make silence obey-every head turned, every mouth shut-until he found air again. I wanted to take the words from his mouth and speak for him; instead I swallowedthe urge. He needed to take this first breath himself, and I needed the city to see it.
He stepped up to the rail, fingers white on the edge. His breath hitched, chest heaving. Silence pressed in, expectant.
“Thank you,” he began. His voice broke. He laughed once, nervous, then tried again, steadier. "For coming. For seeing. For letting this live." He stopped, breath catching, laughter breaking loose sharp and nervous. “The truth is—I didn’t even know about this gallery until tonight. One day I was in Paris, alone with my brushes, and the next I was in the Bellandi residence, married, thrown into a life I never imagined.”
The crowd laughed with him, warmth spilling, some shaking their heads in disbelief at the blunt honesty. I smiled to myself, knowing what they didn’t, that Paris to Palermo had meant chains, drugs, and a collar of my choosing.
Emilio’s hand pressed to his chest, voice unsteady but stronger. “But I couldn’t have done this without him. Without Damiano. Without all of you.” The sound of my name moved through the room like heat. My smile showed teeth.
Mine.
To say it here meant claiming him twice, once with the law of family, once with the law I’d made.
His throat tightened, his words faltering as his eyes shimmered. “I painted to remember. To keep pieces of myself. And now those pieces are here, with you. With us.”
The crowd hushed, leaning closer. His words shook but held. I felt the room tip toward him, a tide I had pulled. Behind the sweetness I counted angles, who watched with hunger, who with envy, who with fear, and kept my hand ready to turn the current if it broke.
“I wish my mother could see this. She believed when I didn’t. She was the one who steadied my hands at the easel, who told me every crooked line still carried truth. I hope she would beproud. I know I am proud, to be here, to be seen. And proud to see her memory carried into this place, into the name above the doors,Galleria di Memoria, a promise that what we lived will not be lost.”
He paused then, breath shallow, eyes moving across the room as if searching for her face in the crowd. His lashes were wet, and I tasted metal, the tang of my own restraint, keeping back the need to shield him from eyes he was finally choosing to meet. Flashbulbs caught the sheen at his lashes. He steadied, lifting the glass. “Thank you all for your presence tonight.”
Applause broke like thunder. Some clapped a heartbeat too late, others with smiles too thin. I marked each face even as the roar rose, who moved with true warmth, who only with calculation.
Mama lifted her glass in cool approval, Alessandro shouted another toast, and the wave of sound rolled over him. Champagne lifted, laughter spilled, Emilio’s name carried on every tongue. He stood flushed and trembling, smiling through tears, and the city finally saw him. I saw the cost and the yield, the sacrifice of his quiet, the harvest of his name. I built a room around that name and barred the exits. I saw more: the way his chest heaved, the damp at his collar, the way his lips parted as if he might break again if I didn’t catch him.
I was there when he stepped back, glass half-spilled in his hand, chest rising like he’d run a mile. His heartbeat skittered against my palm where it touched his throat, then found my rhythm and steadied. Mine. Even his pulse learns me. I caught his jaw, kissed him once more, slow and claiming. “Bravo,marito.” His pulse raced under my thumb, his body loose and taut at once, and I knew the whole room saw that he was mine.
Applause roared louder, cheers folding into music. Champagne was warm on my tongue, his collar damp with sweat against my knuckles, the rough edge of my hand steadying himso the whole city could see he stood only because I held him there. The party spun bright around us, champagne, silk, and flashbulbs. Emilio stood in the center of it, his work burning from the walls, his family anchoring him, the Bellandis standing guard. And I kept my hand at his back, steady, feeling the tremor in his spine, while the city learned his name the way I already knew it, etched into me, unshakable.
The music swelled again, a jazz line rising under the strings. Waiters moved through with more trays, corks flying in bright bursts. I guided him through the crowd, every hand reaching to touch, to congratulate, to claim a piece of him. He bore it, still shaking, still flushed, but with his chin high. Pride and terror warred on his face, but he didn’t falter. My palm stayed firm against his back, catching each tremor, grounding him when the room threatened to swallow him whole.
Outside, the city leaned close, sirens far off, the sea wind pressing against the glass, Palermo itself waiting to see how far this night would carry his name. Marcella’s cool glance had promised rivals would choke on it, and I pictured the patron who slipped away bending over a phone already. And I knew this was only the beginning. Tonight they watched him shine. Later I would put the shine under my thumb and leave it there.
CHAPTER 25
