Page 6

She shakes her head. “Until you’re not.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “I have orders to make. And she is going to be late to practice.”

I groan as I walk away from her. I’ve never told her or Salvatore about my past. About Aria’s father, about my family. But from her hints, I wonder if she knows more than she lets on.

I pick up Aria’s football bag and wave goodbye to Salvatore as I walk my daughter to practice.

* * *

By the time I get Aria tucked into bed and I’m sitting on the balcony drinking whiskey, all I can think about are Magda’s words from earlier. And the said realization I am doing exactly as she said.

I swallow down the whiskey my glass, feeling the burn slide down my throat. The bottle is sitting next to me on the table and I pour another glass of the pot still Irish whiskey. It’s one of my favorites. The smoothness of it hits my tongue before it warms my insides all the way down as it reaches my stomach. I toy with the label on the bottle as I try not to think about my past. About a time when I thought I was going to have everything I wanted. Until it all came crashing down. Of course the events that led to me moving here ten years ago were nowhere near as painful as that day two and a half years ago when I sat just inside the house with the news on. A story that should mean nothing to me broke my heart all over again and to this day I still feel its burn. The ache so deep inside of me I wonder if it will break me.

I close my eyes as I hold back tears I haven’t let myself shed in ten years, except for that day two and a half years ago. The only tears I let myself shed for him. I swallow the lump in my throat then pour myself another glass of whiskey to drown out all the memories that threaten to flood to the surface.

4

MIRABELLA

Itake the scraper and smooth out the grout on the bathroom tile of the guest bathroom. I love this house. It’s nearly a hundred years old and just a few blocks from the hustle and bustle of the center of town. Not to mention it looks right out onto the Mediterranean. But because of its location and lack of upkeep in the last thirty years it became outdated and run down. My mother did what she could, but never spent much time here to rehab it into something modern.

I’ve spent the last eight years saving up as much money as I can to pay for the renovations. It’s part of the reason I work so much at Magda’s café. I have money. A lot of it. But it’s sitting untouched in a bank account. I don’t want dirty money. I never have.

So over the last five years, I’ve remodeled the house into my dream home. I only have a few rooms to add some finishing touches to and then it will be done. But to me, it’s already perfect. An old Italian kitchen with a wood-fire stove but with more modern amenities to make it more sufficient. Including the huge island which I paid a pretty penny for. I turned the entire third floor into my master suite. A large deck takes up the expanse of the house and it’s covered with a beadboard roof. I spend all my evenings out there, smelling the salty air, and watching the waves crash against the beach. Usually accompanied with whiskey.

My other favorite spot is the small garden in the back, shaded by an ivy-covered pergola. I filled it with lush plants and vegetables. Something my mother always had at our home in Genoa. Aria loves it more than me and spends all her time out there when she isn’t at school or playing football. Of course she is back there practicing though.

I wipe away excess grout when I hear the front door open then close. Magda agreed to watch Aria for the day so I could get some of these renovations done around the house that I had been putting off for weeks. Plus the café is closed today and she always enjoys spending time with my daughter on her days off.

“Mirabella.”

I wince when I hear my brother’s voice as he enters the house. I rarely speak to him. My hatred for him is palpable. And I hate when he shows up unannounced. Not that he ever shows up announced. He never tells me when he is coming by and I hate it. Hate that I have to keep myself on my toes. I would much prefer if he never came by at all.

“What do you want, Ezio?” I say as I wipe my hands on my sweats and walk out of the bathroom to find him in my kitchen.

He snags an apple out of the fruit bowl on the island and sinks his teeth into it. He chews slowly as he stares at me, his brown eyes penetrating into me and I want nothing more than to pull the gun out of the drawer in the island and shoot him.

“Can’t I visit my sister whenever I want?” he says with a smirk.

“No. I’ve told you not to come here.”

“You know that isn’t an option.” He takes another bite of the apple and swallows. “Where is my precious niece?”

I clench my fist, my long nails piercing my skin. “Not here.”

“I do miss that little girl.”

“Ezio,” I stammer. “What do you want?”

He rounds the kitchen island and stands next to me, pushing a strand of loose hair off my face. “You really should come home to Genoa. You wouldn’t have to work like you do now.” He gestures to the house. “Fixing up this old village home.”

I push his hand away. “I’m not going back to Genoa. You know that. Giancarlo knows that. You can’t say—”

“You’re a Renzetti Mirabella, no matter how much you wish you weren’t.”

“And Giancarlo has no problem with me living here,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest.