34. Michelangelo

We sat in silence, kissing and touching each other until Angel announced the others had arrived. After unwrapping our arms, we both stood. Pen raced over to DeDe when she was the first to enter the cabin, and the two embraced.

I doubted she’d admit it, at least not yet, but she was responsible for killing Maximo. She took the shot from behind me right before he’d fired in our direction. Her bullet hitting him first is what made his shot veer away from us and strike Typhon instead. If DeDe hadn’t fired when she did, I was certain either Pen or I would be dead.

It made me think of the instances when my beloved Butterfly had said she believed she was destined to meet the woman who’d saved one or both our lives.

“Be careful of your wound,” DeDe said to Typhon when he walked around them.

“You could’ve pulled the trigger seconds earlier, and Max wouldn’t have had the chance to shoot me,” he grumbled before taking a seat. “What kind of PA doesn’t carry pain meds?”

I watched Pen’s face as the ramifications of Typhon’s words dawned on her. “You saved our lives,” she gasped.

“Only once. You saved mine several times.”

Pen turned and looked at me through tear-filled eyes.

“Yes, my love, I was thinking the same thing.”

DeDe had apologized morethan once for making us stop, explaining that Linnea was with Sven’s father and they were anxious to get home to her.

“Give her a kiss from us,” Pen said when the cabin door opened and Angel said they could deboard.

“I will.” The two women hugged again, then Pen embraced Puck.

“Hang on,” I said when Typhon got up to leave. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

His eyes scrunched. “I’ll figure out a way.”

I laughed and squeezed his good arm.

Once they’d all deboarded, I asked Angel if we’d have to wait until after takeoff to use the stateroom. She responded she’d prefer it, for safety reasons, but also promised we’d be in the air in under twenty minutes if we could wait.

We madelove more than once on the eight-hour flight home, and we talked about everything that happened in the last few hours, as well as the outcome of my conversation with Don Scaglione.

“What about the two forgers? Where are they?”

“Soon to be gainfully employed by the Calabrians is my guess.” Not that it made me happy. I hated to think of the grandson’s talents being wasted, spending his life painting other people’s work and lining the pockets of criminals.

I had no doubt that, eventually, the coalition would achieve its goal of taking down the Calabrians in the same way Scaglione’s family would soon strip the Sicilians of their power.

The expression on Pen’s face changed. “I just thought of something. Tara said an Italian man came to the gallery asking to meet with me about us representing an artist. I wonder if it was Maximo de Rossi. It was right after you left the last time.”

“I wonder too,” I said, even though I had no doubt it was. Once again, fate had intervened, and Max didn’t get his hands on her then. I hated that he had at all, but she was safe, and it was over.

“I was thinking we should marry at the Butterfly Cottage,” I blurted, wanting to shift the conversation away from the horrors of our time in Italy.

She smiled. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“When?”

Pen smiled. “I guess whenever we want to.”

“How’s tomorrow?”

This time, she laughed. “I arranged your birthday party on a flight from California to New York; I suppose I can arrange our wedding in a day.”

“I won’t rush you, my love. Take all the time you need. And by that, I mean by the end of the week.”

“Done. Now, let’s keep working on growing our family.”

We were lying side by side, naked under the bedclothes. “Is that what we’ve been doing?”

“Don’t be mad, but I stopped taking birth control after you proposed.”

“Mad? I’m ecstatic! My God, that means you could already be pregnant.”

She smiled and nodded. “You’re right. I could be, but just in case I’m not, let’s keep trying.”