Page 203 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
Apollo was the god of healing and of music.
A fitting divinity for me if ever there was one.
There were no pews in this chapel, only the altar and the echoing, empty space before it. I planted myself before the painted frescos and made a promise to myself that was almost like a prayer.
I would play music again. Christopher didn’t own the pleasure, and I wouldn’t allow him to taint it any further.
I would open myself up to my family, crack open my soul no matter how much it hurt and show them its chaotic contents.
I would love Dante to the fullest extent of my soul because he had taught me how to love again by healing my heart with his pure kindness and loyalty. Mama had told me as a girl that actions spoke louder than words, that if I wanted to prove my strength, I would have to act the part. Dante had shown me time and time again the strength of his love for me, that he chose me above everyone else and everything else in his life. It was time I did the same.
He deserved nothing less.
When I spoke the words under my breath, I didn’t address them to God. I addressed them to the ancestors who had led me there and to the Elena I was honing myself into—not a victim, but a fighter.
A queen.
I left the church feeling cleansed and exhausted, my gaze more internal than external, so at first, I didn’t notice the lovers twined together in the narrow, shaded alleyway behind the Duomo.
I wouldn’t have even paid them any notice at all if I hadn’t glimpsed two heads of long, dark hair, two dresses tangled together at the hems into one.
They were women.
Homosexuality wasn’t unheard of in Italy, of course, but it was an antiquated society with bigotry still rife in everyday society. I was surprised enough by this courage to make out in public to pause as I passed them, peering into the shadows.
My gasp alerted them to my presence, and my suspicions were confirmed.
Mirabella Ianni gaped at me over her lover’s shoulder, her pink mouth still wet from her kisses.
We stared at each mutely, both struck momentarily dumb by the inconvenient coincidence of our meeting.
“Signora Lombardi,” she finally whispered, panic suffusing her entire face, giving it an urgency that under other circumstances would have made her placid prettiness fierce with beauty. “Please, do not tell anyone about this.”
Her girlfriend moved to face me, glaring at me as if I was the anti-Christ. They held each other still, arms looped around waists, shoulders pressed together.
A unit.
A team.
Just like Dante wanted with me, if only I’d stop fucking it up with my insecurities.
I studied Mirabella with new eyes. There was desperation in her pale brown eyes, a tremble in her fingers as she fidgeted with the sleeve of her lover’s dress. She was in love, powerfully so, and she was used to being ridiculed for it.
My heart panged.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I assured her, stepping closer, something stirring at the back of my brain. “But Mira, what are you going to do?”
“I told Dante I won’t marry him,” she said, and I could tell she wanted to be fierce, but she was so soft it didn’t hold.
Her girlfriend, on the other hand, stepped forward and snapped, “You can’t make her do anything.”
“No…but Rocco Abruzzi is her uncle andcapo dei capiof the Napoli Camorra. He can absolutely make her do whatever he wants. Unless…”
Mirabella had long dark hair that fell nearly to her waist. She wasn’t slender, but she had the olive-gold skin of southern Italians, and enough height that, in heels, maybe it could work…
“I have an idea,” I said slowly, despite the mounting excitement in my blood. “But it’s fairly crazy, and you’d have to trust me.”
Mira stared at me with those guileless eyes for a long moment. “He loves you.”
