Page 26 of Run, Starlight (The Royal Ballet Presents #3)

LUCCIANO

“What’s in the envelope?” I ask my brother when he comes in, but all he does is smile and head to the kitchen.

I’m not an easy man to be ignored, so I follow him. He leans over the expensive marble, with a crisp green apple, his first bite is loud and annoys me that he’s now so relaxed.

She did that. She held him and fixed him in a way that I had never seen before.

That I never could do. Yes, Enzo listens to me.

But I can’t calm him down that quickly and not before getting seriously hurt in the process.

I think back to the softening in his voice when he talked to her in the theater.

I thought he was faking, and I think he thought so too, but now I wonder if this domesticated version of him was inside all along.

“What have you planned?” I poke him.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “The next move will be hers and only hers. Does that make you feel better?”

No. Her last move ended up with my cock between her lips, so I don’t think she’ll take us out of this mess.

“You should cook, Lucky,” Enzo says. “Make Mama’s pasta alla norma for her. I bet she’s hungry. A girl can’t live off cock alone.”

I ball my hands into a fist, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I make my way to the kitchen, taking a pot from the cabinet. He’s right. We should feed her. After all we did, the very least I should do is feed her.

It’s not a surprise when I find all the ingredients for Mama’s pasta in the kitchen.

Even with the fresh ingredients, the eggplants look locally sourced, and when I ask about it, Enzo just smiles.

I underestimated my brother. I assumed his insanity was enough to hold him back, but I see now how far he planned behind my back.

He told me his focus changed when he laid his eyes on her, and I should have listened to his words. He never lies.

I slice the eggplant carefully like Mama taught me and follow every step with the image of her in this exact kitchen.

Those were the only times I've seen her happy. She was proud of who she was, and cooking was a big part of that. I was never interested in the kitchen, but I’m glad I still remember this recipe. Otherwise, it would have died with her.

Enzo follows me with his eyes and a satisfied smile on his face. He takes over preparing the tomatoes and the antipasti, humming that same silly tune he likes so much.

Marcella comes into the house, but she never enters the kitchen, and we don’t call her in until everything is ready.

Enzo grabs a wine bottle from the old cellar and helps me bring everything outside.

I step into the past when I see the big table set right on the sand. The night is warm, and the waves replay the soundtrack of my childhood. It reminds me of times when this house was actually a home.

“I will grab her,” Enzo says, skipping out of the room to call the only woman worth his attention .

I stare at the dish Mama taught me, and I’m overwhelmed with feelings.

This house still plagues my nightmares, and I know Enzo feels the same.

I made sure he never had to come back here, yet here he is.

The one who orchestrated our return. Judging by today, he wasn’t as ready as he thought he was, but I’m surprised he even knew how to find this place without me. I was sure he blocked it out.

Marcella and Enzo come in holding hands, and the mysterious envelope in her hands. She places it in one of the seats, as if it’s the fourth person at this dinner. I open my mouth to ask, but before I can address it, Enzo opens the wine and serves us all a healthy glass.

“Saluti!” He raises his glass, and we follow suit.

Enzo is in good spirits. I know I should be happy he found someone who can calm him down. I saw it happening today, yet everything is a mess in my head. I can’t make sense of what is happening.

“Come here, Marcella, you have to try this,” Enzo says as he plates the pasta for her.

To my utter surprise, she opens her mouth when he holds out a forkful to her. She moans, licking the sauce off her lips.

“This is incredible,” she says.

“It’s all Lucky,” Enzo says with pride.

She turns to me with admiration. “It is gorgeous, Lucciano.”

The praise hits me right in the chest, and my sense of self just crumbles a little more. I dig into my food, deciding that maybe it will feel better with a full stomach, but Mama’s recipe is not as comforting as it was before.

Enzo keeps filling up our glasses until there’s no more wine, Marcella laughs once or twice at something he says, and I feel like the ground beneath my feet is shaking. Is she happy?

“More? I can grab another bottle from the cellar.”

“God, no.” She giggles for the third time. “I’m feeling a little dizzy already.”

He parts a piece of bread between his hands and dips it into the olive oil, “Have this.”

She eats from his hand, a shy smile when she mouths a thank you.

I rub my temple with my forefinger and thumb, hoping the pressure is enough to relieve my headache. Tension rolls off my shoulder, and I’m scared of this type of happiness. To eat bread with the woman we kidnapped. To sit and have our father’s wine after he murdered our mother.

What’s going on?

“Lucciano? Are you okay?” she asks me.

I open my eyes to her concerned expression, but words fail me. I can’t start to explain the turmoil inside my chest, festering off my doubts and fears. Maybe it was Enzo’s plan from the start. He doesn’t only destroy what Marcella is to rebuild it, he wants to do the same with me.

“I’m okay.” I dip my chin, and she accepts my lie.

Marcella looks more at peace than I am at this moment.

She has a healthy glow about her. This dinner proved to me that she’s not a captive anymore.

I don’t know what she is. It doesn't matter what my brother says, she’s not a wife.

If I were guilty of dragging her to this life, I can wash my hands now. She’s here willingly.

Yet my heart sits like a stone inside my rib cage.

Marcella's words ring in my head. Her accusations are fresh to my ears, echoing the words I fear too. I’ve been hiding behind my brother for far too long.

It was easy to say my every action was to prevent his, but I loaded her into the car.

Every step of the way, I bought into my brother’s madness.

I’m not just his keeper. I’m not just someone watching it all happen, unable to stop. Until this afternoon with Marcella I was the only one who could manage my brother. Yet here I stand. I'm just as responsible as him, there's place in his madness for me too and it took me too damn long to accept.

I release a shaky breath, taking the responsibility of my own madness for the first time in years. The wine, the insane brother, the willing captive. It's all part of a surrealist painting I refused to be part of until this moment.

The last sip of my wine feels good, and I savor it as it goes down smoothly. Marcella interrupts my thoughts as she clears her throat, her eyes locked on the envelope I forgot about. Shit. No more surprises, please.

“Let’s talk.” My heart drops.