Page 243 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
“Did you get it?” I asked breathlessly.
He nodded.
“So did I.” I pulled my purse into my lap and pulled Dennis’s handgun from its depths. “I can’t believe that worked.”
“High risk, high reward as the Boss always says. He’d be proud of you.”
I sighed. “Let’s hope he can tell me that in person sooner rather than later.”
“Proud of you too,” he said, shooting me a sidelong look. “All of us are. It’s been damn interesting to watch you come into your own the past few months. You should know, the men love you because ofyou, not because you’re D’s wife. They started to fall when you hated him.” He laughed. “I think for Addie and Marco, it happened the moment you refused to move into the apartment. They’d never seen anyone but Tore or me stand up to him before.”
It seemed that everyone knew my chest was hollow because Dante had taken my heart with him when he turned himself in, and they were consciously and consistently filling up the empty cavity with love of their own.
It made me realize how lucky I was and even how lucky I’d always been.
It was amazing how bitterness could blind you to everything else.
As I sat there with Frankie on the way to the apartment to spend Christmas Eve without Dante, I resolved not to forget how much I had to be grateful for every single day. Even if he didn’t come back to me for ages, I had so much more to be happy for, and it was Dante who had taught me that.
It was strange to be in the Smith Jameson apartment without Dante. Suddenly, the stark black and white color scheme seemed mundane and lifeless without his vivacious spirit to liven the rooms. The guys seemed to sense I was melancholy and needed space, so they drifted off to wherever they went and left me in the living room staring vacantly out the closed patio doors.
The apartment held so many important memories for Dante and me—the balcony where we had our first kiss, the garage where he fucked me for the first time, where I had the first climax of my life, the piano where he’d played me as I played the keys.
I sat down at the Steinway and lifted the glossy cover. My hands fell softly to the ivories, light as a feather, a natural movement that made my soul throb.
The music came unbidden, pouring through me as if I was possessed by the spirit of it. I thought of my prayer to Apollo in the Cathedral of Naples, of my promises to play music again because Christopher shouldn’t have the power to ruin it for me.
I thought of Dante as I played, letting the music express my sorrow that he was gone and my gratitude that he existed at all.
The sun shifted in the sky, falling beneath the crust of towering buildings, leaving a smudged tapestry of pinks and oranges in its wake. They faded slowly, the shadows elongating, darkness falling like a shroud over the city.
Still, I played.
I played until my fingers cramped and my wrists ached, until my belly growled louder than the notes I struck.
But I only stopped because I heard my name.
“Elena.”
And the voice that called it was so dear to me it permeated my fog.
My head snapped up, eyes wide as they landed on Mama.
But she wasn’t alone.
Sebastian stood beside her with a duffel over one shoulder and Beau on the other side of him, carrying grocery bags in both hands.
My breath got stuck on something in my throat.
Something that made me want to cry even though it was beautiful.
My people were there.
“Dante called,” Sebastian explained when I sat there mutely. “I got on a plane. Beau, Mama, and I decided to bring you Christmas dinner.” He hesitated. “Sinclair, Giselle, and Genevieve are in Paris for the holidays, and Cosima and Alexander are at Pearl Hall, so it’s just us.”
“Your mama wouldn’t let me bring takeout,” Beau explained a little beleaguered as if he was still recovering from the argument they’d had.
“Boh!” Mama exclaimed with a sidelong look of disappointment for Beau. “Of course, we do not eat ‘takeout,’” she spat the words as if they were dirty. “I am here to cook for mylottatrice, so why do you need this takeout? My food is not good enough, Beau?”
