Page 16 of The Italian's Pregnant Enemy (A Diamond in the Rough)

“I’m sorry, what do you mean by they will come and fix it?” he asked.

“Snowplows,” she said.

“I have a feeling that this is a bit beyond just calling in a snowplow.”

“Why... Then I’ll dig out myself.”

He looked at her and said nothing. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there in front of the wall of light, the cold radiating off of it sending chills through her body. He returned a moment later, with a gleaming silver spoon in his hand.

“I know that normally you keep this in your mouth. But perhaps you might make use of it as a tool to tunnel out?”

She grabbed the spoon and threw it across the room. “You’re unbelievable,” she said. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes, I am. I have been since you arrived, in fact.” He shrugged. “Actually, I’ve been making fun of you for several years, it’s only that you don’t think I have a sense of humor.”

“Because you’re unpleasant. Because you’re ridiculous and...”

“Please, save your energy,” he said, closing the door. “All is well here. And I do not foresee there being any problems.”

The adrenaline of the situation was beginning to wear off and she was starting to think a little bit more clearly. He was speaking very confidently, but the truth was... He didn’t know any of those things. What if they did lose power? What if the generator wasn’t sufficient? What would happen to them then?

“Lyssia,” he said softly. “Do not work yourself up. You’re fine. You will be all right. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

He was being nice now and that was almost worse. Because he really didn’t get her. And she shouldn’t be upset by that.

He didn’t understand that she was frightened because the world was unforgivably random and violent. He didn’t understand she was hurt by her father because she had never, not once, been the number one person in his life. It was her mother, and then Dario, and never her.

“You don’t know that,” she said. “You don’t know that nothing bad will happen. But if the power goes out...”

“We will make a fire.”

“Do you know how to do that? Can you actually get to any wood?”

“I grew up on the streets of Rome,” he said. “And no, I was not often caught in blizzards, but I know how to survive. This will be no different. It is not even a challenge. We are in a luxury chalet.”

She knew that. She knew it as part of the legend of Dario Rivelli. Up from the streets! A tale of survival and hardscrabble work ethic. Bootstraps, bootstraps, etcetera. But the problem was, she had never really sat and pictured the Dario she knew living that life. He felt so removed from it. But when he’d said that just now she had pictured him on the streets. Alone. Dario, a small boy out fending for himself. Was that really what that meant? How long had he been on the streets?

“How many years?”

“I’m sorry?” he asked. “It’s pretty well stocked but I doubt we have years.”

“No. How many years were you on the streets of Rome?” He stared at her and she stared back. “It gets tossed around like...like it’s just evidence of your survival skills or your exceptionalism but I’m...absolutely freaked out about spending five minutes in this place and you’re right. It’s heated and safe and fine. How many years?”

Something shifted in his gaze and it physically hurt her to see it. “Perhaps only a year or so on the actual streets?”

He was lying. He knew how many nights. Down to the exact number of them, she was certain. “I eventually got work, which allowed me shelter, even if it would be considered subpar by many. Once I could work I could live. It saved me.”

“Were you... Were you afraid?” She would have been.

“Of course.”

“Did you have a house before that? What happened?”

“Is this twenty questions about tragic backstories now, Lyssia?”

She shrugged. “We’re snowed in.”

“Aren’t you afraid of the snow?”

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