Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

Sabella

When Heidi calls with fresh provisions the following afternoon, she tells me the news about the boys in a hushed voice where we're unpacking the groceries in the kitchen. Sophie is out of earshot, watching television. Relief rushes through me. I didn't stop worrying and wondering where they were.

"Do you think she misses them?" Heidi asks, jerking her head toward the lounge.

I bite my lip as I consider the question. "It's hard to say. She never talks about them unless I ask questions."

Heidi's smile is warm. "Maybe she doesn't miss them so much because she's happy here."

"I hope so."

"It's plain for anyone to see." She goes on tiptoes to put a packet of tea in the cupboard. "Mrs. Russo—Teresa—would've been happy, I think. She never spoke about her family. But who could've blamed her?"

I'm still battling to understand their family relations, but I'm starting to get a better idea. The late Mr. Russo might have doted on his obedient wife, but they weren't enemies from the onset. At least that advantage counted in their favor.

Once Heidi is gone, I wrap Sophie and myself up in our coats and go out for a walk.

"Let's go down here," Sophie says, pulling me toward the cliff.

"No, sweetheart." I hold her back. "You're never allowed to go near the cliffs. Remember what I said? It's too dangerous."

"No, it isn't." She tugs on my hand. "Over there. See? There's a path. It goes all the way to the beach."

I crane my neck for a better view. She's right. Stone steps zigzag to the small half moon of white sand that borders the turquoise water.

"See?" she says again. "My brothers and I used that path to go to the village. It's better to go this way if you don't want anyone to see you."

"It runs all the way to the village?"

"No, silly." She turns her eyes toward the sky in a dramatic gesture that reminds me a lot of Johan. "It runs to the river, but you have to climb up a bit to get there. There's another path we take from the river to the village. It goes all the way along the stream." Taking on an important air, she adds, "If you walk straight down the valley, people can see you coming from far."

This is how they managed to stay out of sight. They must've used the path when they slipped to the village to steal food.

"Who built the steps?" I ask. "Your great-grandfather?"

"No," she says, dragging out the word. "Angelo did. He told the men to make them so that we could go down to the beach to swim in the summer." She bobs her head as she says, "It gets very hot in summer. Angelo didn't know Beatrice is afraid of water and that my brothers can't swim. He needn't have gone to so much trouble telling the men to make the stairs. Grandpa is too old to climb them anyway. Do you want to go down?"

The water pulls me with a force as strong as ever. A sudden pang of nostalgia hits me hard when an image of the beach and the surf in Great Brak River springs into my mind. The memory of swimming for miles into the sea and drifting on my back while the clouds made pictures in the sky leaves me homesick. The ocean has always been my safe haven. Water is the element in which I feel the most at home. I'm afraid if I go down there now, I'll be swamped with longing and drowning in sadness.

"Let's go up the road today," I suggest.

"Okay," she says, skipping ahead of me.

We follow the dirt road up the hill. Where the tracks disappear over rolling mountain tops, we cut toward a rocky outcrop dotted with bushes. Sophie falls into step next to me. She talks about the birds and the plants, but I'm ashamed to admit that I'm not fully paying attention. I'm worried about her and her brothers' future. I'm also concerned that I can't get a message to Mrs. Paoli and Mr. Martin, who'll wonder what happened to me. I don't want them to think I let them down, but I can't risk going to the village today, not if there's a chance that my husband may return. With everything that's happening with the boys, our predictable routine is disrupted. Plus, I don't entirely believe that Angelo showing up at the same time as Johan was a coincidence. What if he's having me watched? He used to have men following me in South Africa. What's preventing him from doing so again?

I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don't realize how far we walked until Sophie cries out, "Look, a cross."

I turn my head in the direction she's pointing, and then I still. Three crosses stand on top of the highest hill, their shapes forming stark black lines against the winter blue of the sky. A picket fence encloses them, marking the patch of tamed earth that isolates the crosses from the rest of the wilderness.

My heart skips a beat. Those crosses and the fence can only signify one thing—a graveyard. And I already know who were put to rest there before Sophie pulls on my hand and says, "Let's go look."

I want to object, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Together, Sophie and I make our way to the top. The gate isn't locked. It works with a latch, which only purpose is to prevent the wind from blowing the gate open. I lift the latch and push the gate. It swings inward without a squeak. The hinges are oiled. The coat of varnish that covers the wooden spikes of the fence is shiny. The sun and wind haven't damaged it yet. The distinct smell of the varnish still hangs in the air. Except for those three crosses, there are no other gravestones. The graveyard is new.

Sophie trots in carefully. Just in case, I hold onto her hand. I don't want her to step on the nurslings growing next to the path and around the graves. We stop in front of the crosses. They're massive, cut from granite with carvings of roses. Names and dates are engraved in the centers of the flower artwork, intertwined with the leaves and the thorns.

Teresa Maria Russo.

Adeline Sofia Russo.

Santino Romeo Russo.

As if on cue, a cloud drifts in front of the sun. The mild winter heat on my back vanishes. A shiver runs through my body. I take in the browning flowers at the foot of each grave. Roses. The blooms must've been a pristine white, their petals thick and velvety. Now, they're the nondescript color of decay and withering around the edges.

Did my husband leave those flowers?

An incredible sadness invades my senses. The sentiment is deep and profound like a smell that's pulled into the woodworks and that you can never wash out, the kind that clings to a soul. I imagine his loss and his pain as he laid the beautiful, perfect flowers on each grave. I try to put myself in my husband's shoes, to imagine what he must've suffered when his mother and his twin were ripped from him in such a violent way, both on the same day. And as compassion and the echo of his anguish rip through me, I experience an intense urge to soothe him.

I lost a dad, but Angelo lost so much more. I heard his father when he gave the order, when he told his son to kill me. An eye for an eye. My father for his mother. Me for his sister. Only, he didn't. He didn't pull the trigger. How much self-control did it take to defy and disappoint his father? How much did he risk letting me live? For the first time, I also consider that his motives involved more than vengeance, that he kept me alive for selfish reasons. That he spared me not only for the useful purpose of my name or for extracting punishment but because he wanted me.

A deep, furious voice cuts into my melancholic thoughts. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I spin around. Angelo is stalking up the path, his powerful legs bunching in a pair of tight jeans as his long strides eat up the distance.

Confused, I frown. It's as if he materialized from thin air. I'm still in a different space, and it takes me a moment to come to my senses as he grabs my bicep and shakes me.

His dark gaze drills into mine. Every word is measured. "What are you doing?"

His hold on me is painful. I understand his anger. I trespassed in his most private space—his grief. But when he starts dragging me to the gate, Sophie's eyes flare.

"Stop," I cry out, my voice soft but urgent. "You're scaring her."

At that, he freezes. He cuts his gaze to Sophie where she's standing with round eyes in front of the graves, clutching Beatrice against her chest.

Heidi's head appears over the curve of the hill. She jogs toward us with an anxious expression.

Angelo looks at where his fingers are digging into my flesh. He drops my arm. When he lifts his gaze to mine, his eyes are cold and hard. Lowering his voice, he orders in a biting tone, "Do not fucking move."

He walks to Sophie and holds out his hand. The effort of controlling himself is visible in the harsh set of his jaw, but he manages a strained smile. "Heidi is going to take you to visit your brothers. She made a cake for teatime."

Backtracking, Sophie shakes her head. "I don't want to go. Beatrice doesn't want cake."

"It's just for a short while," he says. "Heidi will bring you back in time for dinner."

Heidi reaches the gates. She shoots me a concerned look before charging down the path toward Sophie and then slowing her step as if not to frighten the child. "Come on, honey. Don't you want to say hello to your brothers? We'll come back afterward. I promise."

Sophie's gaze snaps to mine.

"It's all right," I say, looking at Heidi for confirmation.

The housekeeper nods. I trust her.

"Heidi will bring you back," I say. "Mr. Russo and I just need a private moment."

"Are you angry, Angelo?" Sophie asks with a quivering chin.

"No, darling," he says, his eyes softening as he wraps his large hand around her small one. "Not with you."

"You'll bring me and Beatrice back?" she asks in a small voice as he hands her over to Heidi.

His nod is solemn. "I promise."

"Are you sure, Sabella?" she asks.

I smile. "Absolutely. Go say hello to your brothers." I wink. "And then you can come tell me everything."

She doesn't look convinced as Heidi steers her through the gate. She glances back over her shoulder at us until they disappear from view.

Angelo grips my arm and drags me from the graveyard. I stumble over a rock, but he doesn't slow down. He doesn't even stop to close the gate. He manhandles me toward the road. As we reach the top of the hill, I'm just in time to see Heidi and Sophie leave in the Land Rover. A 4x4 is parked behind.

Angelo pushes me ahead of him and opens the passenger door. He all but shoves me inside and slams the door. Then he stomps around the vehicle, gets in, and starts the engine.

"Put on your safety belt," he bites out.

As soon as I've obeyed, he floors the gas. The road is bumpy. I bounce in my seat as we speed over potholes.

I study the profile of his furious face. "I didn't mean to trespass."

He clenches the wheel in a death grip. "Then what the fuck were you doing?"

"We just—" I was going to say we just happened to wander upon the site when a thought hits me. "Hold on. How did you know we were there?"

The muscles in his jaw bunch. I wait, but he doesn't reply. I was right. He's having me watched. That's how he knew when Johan showed up yesterday. It's the only explanation that makes sense. Does that mean he knows I went to the village? If he did, why didn't he say something? It's not like him to keep quiet about my disobedience. He won't let something like that slide. Unless he's only had me watched since recently.

When we arrive at the house, he cuts the engine and jumps out of the vehicle before I have time to reach for my door handle. He comes around and yanks my door open. My breath catches as he grabs me around the waist and lifts me to the ground so fast that my stomach dips like when I'm on a rollercoaster. Gripping my wrist, he drags me to the door.

The minute we're inside, he lets me go. I almost lose my footing from the momentum. He doesn't give me time to utter a word. He doesn't demand explanations or excuses. He slams the door and locks it. And then he turns to face me.

Everything he bottled up inside for Sophie's sake in the graveyard comes tumbling out in the way he stares at me with vicious, dark eyes. All the hatred. All the bitterness. All the sorrow. Darkness pours from every molecule of his being as he unbuckles his belt.

I freeze. I'm not sure where he's going to take this, if he wants to fuck me or kill me, but I know it's the latter when, instead of unzipping, he pulls the leather from his waistband. Folding the belt double with the buckle in his palm, he advances on me.

So, it's punishment he's after. Vengeance again. I can't go back to how we were before Paris. I can't regress that far because we'll never come back from it. This is the turning point. I know it instinctively. Even though his mouth twists with distaste as he looks at me, I think about the graveyard and the notion that struck me, that perhaps he spared me because a part of him wanted me for who I am. Maybe, like me, he wanted better things for us. I think about the pain and the loss and all that sorrow. And when I think about him instead of myself, I do the only thing I can. I unbutton my coat and let it slip down my arms. I pull my sweater over my head and drop it at my feet.

He stops.

I unclip my bra, discarding that on the floor too.

His gaze dips to my breasts. His knuckles turn white on the belt. "Put your sweater back on, Sabella, or I swear your tits will get a taste of this belt instead of your ass."

Ignoring him, I kick off my sneakers and pop the button on my jeans. Still, he doesn't move. Not when I shimmy out of my jeans and panties and not when I pull off my socks. He stands frozen to the spot as I go down on my knees and spread them, offering myself like a sacrifice. It's what he ordered. It's what he asked of me. But in this moment, I see the truth in his eyes. He doesn't like it. The insight gives me courage. It gives me the strength to meet the rage in his gaze head-on and to be honest. For once, to say what's in my heart.

"Get up," he snarls.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He charges over the floor and stops in front of me. I'm not even sure he heard me.

"Get up and bend over or I swear…"

He doesn't finish that sentence because he can't. He doesn't want to. He's fighting me, fighting what could be. That's what he did on the morning he woke with his arms around me in my bed. That's why he clammed up and took off so fast. He's resisting that glimpse I got of us this weekend in a hotel room.

"I'm sorry," I say again. "I'm so sorry for what my family did to you."

The rage transforms into something furious, a storm that wreaks havoc inside him. I know, because that storm lives inside me too. It's been living there for too long, trapped between the confines of my ribcage.

"I'm sorry." I stare up at his devastatingly handsome face, my heart shattering for this beautiful, tormented man. "I'm so sorry for everything."

The storm breaks as he throws the belt aside. Towering over me, he clenches his hands into fists, fighting still.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Russo."

Whatever he's holding onto so tightly snaps like a twig in a tornado. Buttons go flying as he rips his shirt in his haste to peel it off. His shoes and pants follow next. He's on top of me in an instant, pinning my naked body to the floor. His weight sinks into me, anchoring me with a painful pressure on the wood. His cock is hard between my legs. Surging his hips, he enters me with a single thrust. I lift my head as he lowers his, our mouths meeting halfway in a crushing kiss. He pumps twice, shifting me over the floor before he pulls out and gets onto his knees. Clamping his hands around my waist, he rolls me over. Before I have time to drag in a breath, he's inside me again, spearing into me from behind.

I know what he's doing, why he's not looking at me. He's avoiding me even as he's fucking me like his life depends on it. But I won't let him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Russo."

He thrusts harder, shoving his cock deeper until he hits that sweet spot that makes me lose my ability to speak. I can only moan as he punches his hips faster, creating too much friction and not enough.

"What you do to me, cara," he says, his voice laced with something close to pain.

He grunts and stills, holding himself up on his arms as his body pulls tight on top of mine. I'm lost in his pleasure, needing it more than my own. I feel him riding that wave of euphoria as warmth bathes me inside. And I'm glad. Because I love it when he comes inside me.

The tension abates. His muscles relax. The storm has passed. Lowering his head, he brushes a kiss over my shoulder. I turn my head sideways and catch his lips. He doesn't deny me. The caress is tender, a far cry from what he set out to do when we walked through the door, and I revel in the small victory.

"Sabella," he mutters, nipping my earlobe.

My name is both a protest and a prayer on his lips. The heat of his chest on my back vanishes. Instead of lifting off me as I expect, he slides a hand around my stomach and between my legs. When he presses his fingers on my clit, the tension in my lower body builds again. A gasp slips from my lips, telling him what he does to me. He doesn't work fast and efficiently. He takes his time, rubbing me slowly.

By the time I'm ready to beg for release, he's growing hard inside me again. My panting is loud and my moans needy, but I don't care. He fucks me slowly, savoring it this time. I'm overstimulated and raw inside when he finally lets me come. He doesn't climax again, but he moves with me, setting the rhythm of my hips until my aftershocks have faded.

The floor is cold beneath me, but as long as his body covers mine, I'm in no rush to move.

Too soon, his warmth disappears. I turn my face to the side. He gets up and looks down at me with confusion etched on his face. Spearing his hands through his hair, he steps away. It feels like the cloud that moved in front of the sun. The room turns ten degrees colder. Confusion morphs into urgency as he grabs his pants off the floor and pulls them on with jerky movements.

I push up onto my knees, feeling the effort in every muscle. He avoids my gaze, groping for his torn shirt and balling it up in his fist. Still not meeting my eyes, he offers me a hand and helps me to my feet. He stands tall, a stunning picture of ink and muscles. I wrap my arms around myself and press my legs together to prevent his cum from running down my thighs. I'm not so sure of my victory any longer. I failed to get through to him, and I don't want him to see me so vulnerable, not when he's so detached.

I needn't have worried about his attention, because he turns his back on me and walks up the stairs. Leaving me like this is a thousand times worse than when he watches his release leak from my body. I'm unable to move. I can't bring myself to take a step toward the stairs.

He comes down a moment later, dressed in a clean shirt and carrying my robe in his hands. What I see on his face is no longer anger. There's just…nothing. His mask is back in place. He hangs the robe over my shoulders. For a fraction of a second, his hold tightens, but then he drops his hands and walks through the door, leaving me alone once more, still banished, forcing me to face the fact that we may be broken forever.