Page 124 of Rosetti Family New York

She holds up a lamp that's all angles and metal. "Nice, right?"

I don't want to talk about lamps. I want to talk about a woman who should be down here by now. "Nice," I say anyway.

She runs a finger over the cool countertop. "You should really turn on some lights in here, hon. It's depressing."

"I'm fine."

She tilts her head at me. I don't like what she sees, so I pour another drink to distract her.

Gianna, my mother, watches us both, sipping a cup of coffee she already managed to find. "Besiana's not with you?" she asks.

"She'll be down later."

Carmela's eyes go wide. "Did you guys have a fight?"

"Don't," I say, too sharp. My mother arches an eyebrow at me.

"It's fine," I add, softer. “I’m just tired.”

"Already?" Mamma laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "Wait till you have six children like I did."

"I'm sure Besiana will be more than happy to make that happen," Carmela calls from across the room, pouring herself a glass of water. I grit my teeth. I wait for the laugh that comes too easily.

"If she's not angry with you, anyway," she adds.

I don't realize I'm crushing the glass in my hand until it shatters. The sound echoes. I am too close to the edge. I am slipping, slipping. Mamma gives me a nod.

"Go see to her," she says. Her voice is warm, but I can tell an order when I hear it.

I do.

I take the stairs two at a time, my mind on Besiana and nothing else. She's what matters now, even if it makes me a man I don't recognize. Even if it makes me the kind of man who loses control. The space between us shrinks, but not fast enough.

I'm outside the bedroom. I open the door.

She's still where I left her. The bedsheets are a white tangle, and she's curled in them, naked. Her shoulders are shaking. Her long dark hair spills over her face, but I know what I'll see if I brush it back. Her eyes. Red, but not the way I thought. Hurt. The sound of it gets me where I live. It's the sound of a sob.

"Besiana," I say, and this time the weakness of my own voice is evident.

I sit beside her and lift her from the bed. She's warm against my chest, and I carry her to the sofa, holding her close. I say nothing. I don’t want to break more than I have already.

She won't look at me, won't meet my eyes, and my heart is tearing into something that's nothing but red and raw. Her shoulders are bare. Her skin is bare. All of her is bare. I pull her tight against me, and I don't know how to do this right.

She is shaking in my arms.

I ask what happened at her father's house. What I should have asked in the first place.

"It doesn't matter." Her voice is too small for the Besiana I know. She buries her face in my shoulder, and it makes the world stop.

"It does." I stroke her hair. Soft, dark strands. "It matters to me."

She doesn't answer, and I don't push her. Not this time. Not when I can't see her break any more than she has. I hold her. I wait. I hold her.

"It was about my mother," she says finally, and I don't dare move.

I stay silent. She speaks. It hurts like hell to hear, but I let it rip through me.

"I always suspected my father had her killed." She shudders, the truth unraveling between us. The only way it doesn't destroy her is to give it to me, so I take it. I take all of it.