Page 60

I laugh at the offended face he makes at that, “Who are you calling old?”

The situation is surprisingly light. A part of me knows he could very well press the issue of me sleeping in his bedroom, maybe even convince me if he takes his shirt off or something. Instead he lets out a soft breath, stepping forward to cup my cheek.

“We’ll go at your pace, sweetheart. Whenever you’re ready.”

I swallow softly. The truth is, I’m ready now. My heart wants nothing more than to fall deep into the vacuum that is Damien Luciano. But my head knows better.

Or at least I hope it does.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DAMIEN

Cemeteries are always cold.

A welcome sort of cold that coupled with silence, seeps into my bones. It cuts through the heat that constantly simmers beneath my skin. Inching at buried emotions. Anger. Guilt. Sadness. It’s always a toss-up whenever I come here. I don’t know what I’m going to feel.

But I come here regardless anytime something life changing happens to me. Sentimentality? Or as a punishment, who knows. Maybe it’s both.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I walk, my hands in my coat pockets. Luca trails behind me, close but never too close. We pass the same cracked angels and meta gates. The same dying flowers left by people who still believe the dead care. They don’t.

The dead are gone and all that’s left behind are the memories and feelings people continue to hold on to. It’s ironic how people always wish for the dead to rest in peace, and somehow manage to prevent them from doing so with their grief.

I keep on walking. Until I reach row eighteen. Headstone five.

Carina Moretti Luciano. Beloved wife and mother.

My mother.

I stare at the name carved in stone, bold and neat. The script lies. Somehow managing to project everything my mother wasn’t. She wasn’t the typical Don’s wife, graceful and dignified. My father always described her as wildfire dressed in silk and pearls.

“Hello, mother,” I say quietly in Italian. “Did you miss me?”

I come to her grave more than I do my fathers. The parent I loved more. What I felt or feel for my mother isn’t love. But it isn’t not love. We share an extremely complicated relationship.

My mother was painfully human in a world that raised me to carve out all human emotions. I despised her for that. I was unable to understand it.

I crouch beside the grave, brush away the dead leaves collecting at the base. My fingers linger on the cold marble. A name and two dates, one the day she was born and the other the day she became dead to me. She used to hold me when I had fevers as a kid. She would cry like she felt my pain. She loved me unconditionally.

But I killed her. At least that’s what everyone thinks.

“Is this my punishment, mother?” I ask, still speaking Italian. “Will I ever be free of you?”

The wind stirs. Dead leaves spiral across the gravel like they’re running from something. Maybe I should too. Run from it all. the complicated feelings she stirs.

“I got married yesterday. Her name’s Cassandra. She’s…” I hesitate before saying my next words, feeling them acutely for the first time. “You’d like her. She’s beautiful. And she’s like you. A wildfire that threatens to burn everything in its path. But her fire doesn’t feel destructive, mother. It feels warm, despitethe fact that it might burn me. Cassie won’t betray me like you betrayed father. Like you betrayed us. I won’t let her.”

I hear her voice in my head—soft, haunting, like a ghost wrapped in silk.

“Will you kill your own mother? Is this how you treat a woman you love, mi amore?”

The words echo like a curse, twisting through my thoughts.

Would I ever hurt Cassie?

Never.

I’d burn the whole fucking world to ash before I laid a hand on her. I’d tear down empires, slit throats, and paint the streets red before I let her feel an ounce of pain because of me.