Chapter Nineteen

Lore

“Hey, Mrs. Lombardi,” Elian greeted me, giving me his usual smile, but there was a tightness around his eyes.

“Hey, Elian. You look like you didn’t sleep well last night,” I said, going toward the coffee pot, but finding it cold already.

More proof that Renzo had been gone for hours.

I wouldn’t have even known that he’d been home at all if not for the clothes on the floor.

I’d dreamt of him endlessly the night before.

Not the sweaty, frustrating, fantasy dreams I’d been plagued with thanks to not having had any relief for so long now. Something that had my mind running wild with ideas of Renzo being sick of me. Of Renzo going and finding someone else to have sex with. Thoughts that had been making me too queasy to even eat since they came to mind almost a week ago now.

No, these were softer, sweeter dreams.

Ones of him holding me tight.

No sex.

Just intimacy.

Just… closeness.

But, of course, I woke up alone yet again. With no hope of seeing him. Yet again. Let alone have him hold me.

“I didn’t,” he admitted as I started to reach for the coffee, but then thought better of it.

“Hey, you want to go get some good coffee with me?” I asked.

“Good coffee?” he asked.

“You know. The kind with lots of cream and sugar and whipped cream. More calories than a whole meal. That good kind.”

His lips curved up at that, his smile a little softer. But then went sad.

“I can’t leave the door,” he told me, his face falling all the more as I felt my own mood plummet.

Right.

The door.

The only reason Elian was even here.

Not for me.

Not to be my friend.

I didn’t have friends here.

I didn’t have family.

I didn’t really even have a husband.

The weight of that crashed down on me, leaving me feeling a hundred pounds heavier, making my chest go concave.

“Right,” I said, forcing a smile, figuring Elian was likely sick of seeing me sad. Almost as sick as I was of being sad. “How about I bring you back one?” I asked, putting some extra pep in my words, even if I knew he could see right through it.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” he said, giving me that sympathetic smile of his that only ever felt like knives to my already tender heart.

Because he, practically a stranger to me, saw how unhappy I was. While my own husband was oblivious.

“What’s your favorite flavor? I think I’m leaning toward mocha today. I could use some chocolate.”

“I could go for that.”

“Whipped cream? Fair warning, I will judge you if you opt out of whipped cream. It’s the best part.”

“Whipped cream sounds good.”

“Hot or cold? I know it’s like twenty degrees out, but I am feeling a frappe today.”

“Get me what you’re getting yourself,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

“You better not be reaching for money,” I said, small eyeing him. “My treat. Well, Renzo’s treat,” I said, just his name causing a pang.

“Alright,” he said, not wanting to push it, likely seeing my achy heart in my eyes.

“Okay. I will be… twenty minutes,” I told him.

I hadn’t been going out a lot.

A coffee run here and there.

But it no longer felt weird leaving the apartment.

I slipped into my shoes.

Then grabbed my heaviest hoodie.

“That’s not warm enough,” Elian said, frowning at it.

“Oh, ah, my coat zipper was ruined when, well, you know,” I said. “I haven’t gotten around to getting another. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s a couple of minutes. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, then walking through the apartment and into Renzo’s study.

I’d been in there a few times. Once out of curiosity. Then the other times to clean. It was a simple space with a desk and a big monitor, a couch, and, well, not much else.

Lately, I’d been avoiding the space, not liking the way it smelled like him, and how some sad, pathetic part of me wanted to curl up on the couch and breathe him in.

“Here,” Elian said, coming back out with a lined leather jacket, the leather worn, cracked, and soft from age, and holding it out to me. “Put this on.”

And smell Renzo on me the entire trip out? I’d rather be cold.

But Elian wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I slipped my arms in, surprised by the weight of it as it settled on my shoulders.

“It’s huge,” I said, seeing my hands disappear in the sleeves. “Do I look ridiculous?”

“Kind of,” Elian admitted, making us both laugh. “But you’ll be warm,” he added.

“Thanks,” I said, following him out the door. “Twenty minutes. And then you’re going to have the happiest tastebuds ever,” I promised him.

“Looking forward to it,” he agreed as I walked to the elevator.

It was every bit as cold outside as I thought, despite the sun casting off of the windows. The hot dog cart on the corner kept puffing steam into the air and the woman who passed by me, chatting with someone on a video call was trailing her breath behind her.

Fall had taken a sharp right turn toward winter, and I felt an ache in my core, knowing the holidays would be right around the corner.

Thanksgiving not sitting at one of my aunts’ tables.

Christmas without my brothers’ big forms swallowing up all the space on the couches, making me sit crosslegged on the floor like a little girl in front of the tree as our father passed out gifts.

Would there even be a Thanksgiving with the Lombardi family?

Aside from Cinna, I had yet to meet a Lombardi woman. And she certainly wasn’t the type to stand in the kitchen from dawn until dinnertime where she would fill the table with food and sit with her loved ones to say grace and share a meal.

But maybe there were other Lombardi women who were more like the Costa women.

Or, maybe, that was now my place, I thought as I walked down the street.

I mean, I was—as crazy as it felt, given my age—now the Lombardi matriarch. And wasn’t it my place to plan a dinner, to shop for it, to invite people, to make the meal, and serve it to the family?

By the time I closed in on the coffee shop, I already had a menu in my mind.

A turkey, of course.

Creamy mashed potatoes. Green bean casserole. Sweet potatoes, with or without the marshmallows. Broccoli. Salad. Rolls. Maybe a couple trays of baked ziti. We were Italian, after all.

Pumpkin and apple pies for dessert went without saying.

I had it all planned out by the time I finally got through the long line and made it to the counter, ordering two large mocha frappes with whipped cream and extra drizzle.

I wondered if I could ask Elian about Thanksgiving, or if this was something I should talk to Renzo about first.

If I ever saw him.

No.

No, damnit.

I wasn’t going to let those thoughts win. Not when I finally found something to be excited about, something to focus my restless energy on.

And after Thanksgiving, I could decorate for Christmas. Buy gifts for my old family. And my new one. And maybe plan another meal for everyone to attend. Or, at least, a little Christmas party with hors d”oeuvre and drinks. That seemed right up this family’s alley.

My shoulders were looser and my soul lighter as I stepped out of the coffee shop with the frozen coffees in my hand.

I was already imagining going home to hop online and start looking up Thanksgiving table scapes.

It was right then, like fate shining down on me, telling me I was on the right path, when I saw a familiar frame just a few doors down.

There were a few of his men in front of him, disappearing into a building, bodies tense.

But I barely even noticed them.

I was laser focused on Renzo, on the way this felt so serendipitous.

“Renzo!” I called, rushing down the street before I could lose him. “Renzo!” I called again, watching him turn toward the sound of my voice.

I was too wrapped up in my own excitement right then, shooting him a big smile, to pay attention to his reaction to me.

“Hey!” I said, getting closer. “This is so funny. I was just thinking that I needed to talk to you about something,” I said as I finally stood in front of him.

A loud crash came from inside the building Renzo was standing in the doorway of, making Renzo tense.

“Not now,” he said, his voice firm.

But I was too wrapped up in my excitement for the future to pay attention.

“It will just take a min—“ I started as another clamor came from inside.

“I said not now,” Renzo barked, voice harder than I’d ever heard it. “Go home,” he snapped, then turned and disappeared into the building.

Leaving me standing on the sidewalk.

Scolded like a child.

He’d never used a tone of voice like that with me.

It was like a slap in the face.

No.

No, it was worse than that.

It was like he’d blown out the light inside of me.

The one that I’d been struggling to keep flickering for weeks.

And all that was left was a bottomless darkness.

Swallowing me up.

I stood there longer than my pride would let me admit.

Before I found myself turning, walking on stiff legs to the corner, each step feeling weighted and clumsy.

I could see the apartment a few blocks over, familiar, even starting to feel like home.

Inside, I would find Elian sitting there waiting for his coffee. I would have to put on a brave face and walk inside and try to act like things were okay.

When they weren’t.

God, they weren’t.

Nothing was okay.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t go back there.

I couldn’t look in the face of the man I loved and think about the way he’d yelled at me on the street like I was an annoying child. Not his wife. Not the woman he swore before God to have and hold.

I just couldn’t do this anymore.

Not for another goddamn second.

I tossed the drinks into the trash on the corner, then turned in the opposite direction of the apartment building, already feeling the tears threatening, pleading with them to hold out as I made my way down the subway steps, then waited on the platform with a bunch of strangers I didn’t want to see me cry.

I deep breathed through the sorrow as I rode one subway, then transferred to another.

I even kept it together as I hopped in a cab and gave them an address. To the only place I could think of to go.

But as I walked up to the familiar building, as I rode the elevator to his floor, as I walked up to his door, as I knocked, I felt my defenses crumbling, felt every hurt feeling and disappointment well up and spill over.

As my tears started to do the same, I heard the doorknob turning.

Saw the door opening.

And there he was.

Nico.

“Lore.” He exhaled out my name like a breath he’d been holding for weeks. “What—“ he started as a sob escaped me. “Oh, honey,” he said, reaching for me, and drawing me close to his wide, reassuring chest.

He pulled me inside, kicking the door closed, then just stood there in the entryway, holding me, his arms a hug I’d been aching for without realizing it.

“Lore, honey,” he said, sounding as hopeless as the situation I found myself in. “If he hurt you—“ he said, trailing off, the threat hanging in the air between us.

He had.

Hurt me.

More than I knew was possible so quickly.

But that wasn’t what Nico thought, what he was worried about. The tension was growing in his body with each passing second, imagining me on the ground after my husband struck me.

I sniffled hard, trying to get it together.

When the words escaped me, though, they were pulled apart at the edges.

“I just want him to love me back. Why can’t he just love me back?”

“Oh, Lore,” Nico said, arms squeezing me tighter, crushing my breath in my chest, but I clung to him harder still, sure if I let go, I would shatter to pieces.

Nico pulled me blindly across the apartment, my face buried in his chest, then lowered us down onto the couch, holding me with my legs over his lap like he did that time on the anniversary of our mothers’ passing, when the grief shook my fault line bones, leaving me sobbing on the floor. Where he’d scooped me up, brought me to the couch, and just let the pain leech from me as he sat there with me.

He didn’t try to feed me reassurances, try to tell me it was going to be okay.

I wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

And maybe he sensed that.

He just sat there, being the rock he’d always been for me. Steady and stalwart. Unbreakable, even as I broke apart.

I couldn’t tell you how long we sat there like that. As the sobs rose from somewhere deep inside of me, the intensity of them rocking my body as the tears burned down my cheeks, soaked through Nico’s shirt.

“No one,” Nico finally said as my sobs became sniffles, as enough of the pain escaped to make it possible to think past it, “And I mean no fucking one,” he went on, “is ever fucking worth crying like that over.”

“You don’t—“

“I know I don’t understand,” he cut me off, voice a little softer, a bit sadder. The words were hanging there in the air. Because you wouldn’t talk to me. “But I don’t need to understand to know that pain like that isn’t right. That anyone who causes that isn’t someone deserving of how much you clearly care.”

“I’ve tried so hard,” I said, blinking back more tears.

“Tried what?”

To stick it out? To keep enduring? To convince myself that it was going to get better even when there were no signs of that.

“Tried to wait,” I said finally.

“Wait for what?”

“For… for him to care about me,” I choked out.

A growl moved through Nico’s chest, and I wanted to smile at his older brother protectiveness. But I wasn’t sure I was capable of smiling then. Or ever again.

“He’s a fucking idiot if he doesn’t care about you, Lore. If he doesn’t love you,” he added. “You’re the easiest person in the world to love. No,” he said at the pained whimper that escaped me.

Because if I was so easy to love, why didn’t he love me?

“No,” he repeated, taking a deep breath. “What I mean is… if he doesn’t love someone as lovable as you, maybe the issue is he isn’t capable of it.”

I said nothing. Because that didn’t make me feel any better. It didn’t undo the damage to my heart. Even if Renzo wasn’t capable of love, it didn’t change that I loved him.

“Is this why you were so adamant?” he asked after a moment. “About marrying him,” he clarified. “Did you have feelings for him already?”

“Yes,” I admitted. What use was lying about it anymore? Things couldn’t get worse.

“How?”

“I’d snuck out of Manhattan when I was sixteen,” I admitted. “I wanted to go to the bookstore in Brooklyn—“

“The one I should have fucking taken you to when you asked me,” he grumbled, angry at his younger self.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “And I went and it was everything I ever thought it would be. But after…”

“After?” he prompted.

“After… some guys were harassing me. This is why I didn’t tell you,” I said, feeling him tense.

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “What happened?”

“Renzo saved me,” I told him. “And it sounds really silly looking back, but I think I fell for him right then. And I kept going back to ‘shop for books,’ but I was really just trying to see him again.”

“Wait… did he know this?”

“No. I don’t think he even remembers the incident. Apparently, it’s, like, a rule in his family. If they see women or girls getting harassed on the street, they step in. I was probably one of hundreds,” I admitted.

But he’d been my one.

That silly, fanciful girl with hearts in her eyes.

No idea what it was actually like to love a man like him.

“Tell me he hasn’t been hurting you,” Nico demanded as I finally pulled my legs off of his lap, drawing them up to my chest instead, wrapping my arms around them, and squeezing. Like maybe that would make me feel less broken.

“No,” I said, voice low, eyes squeezed shut because I felt the telltale stinging in them again, and I’d embarrassed myself enough for one day.

“Lore, you can’t cry like that to me and not tell me what happened. My mind is going to think the worst.”

“He doesn’t… he doesn’t care about me,” I decided, his face and voice flashing back into my mind, yelling at me, sending me away.

Someone who cared didn’t talk to you like that.

Someone who cared didn’t use your body then ignore you.

But I couldn’t tell Nico that.

He would charge over to Brooklyn and murder Renzo on the spot if he knew.

“What makes you say that?” Nico asked, trying really hard to be a neutral party, even though I knew he wanted to pummel Renzo since the day I agreed to marry him.

“He just… he’s never around. He never… talks to me. He just… he doesn’t care.”

My memory flashed back then, thinking of him coming into the room with a heating pad, with chocolate, with pain patches. Of him holding me gently.

Of him coming into the guest room I’d shut myself up in, gathering me in his arms, and bringing me downstairs to serve me dinner.

There were times when it felt like he…

No.

No.

I wasn’t going to keep making excuses for him. I wasn’t going to pretend that the breadcrumbs he tossed to me were enough to sustain me.

The edge between grief and hope was razor thin.

I was tired of getting sliced open teetering on it.

“Okay,” Nico said, reaching out to pat my wrist. “You can stay here,” he said.

“No, I can’t,” I said, suddenly realizing that there was no escape. I was married. There was an alliance.

He may have been a man made of bombs.

And I may have been sick of being his rubble.

But there was no escaping this.

“Yes, you can. If there’s an issue, we will handle it. You don’t have to think about anything but yourself right now,” he said.

I wanted to believe him.

I wanted… a lot of things.

But I was just so damn tired.

“Can I take a nap in your guest room?” I asked.

“Of course you can,” he said, wanting to say more, to ask more, to press, but sensing I was too fragile for anything else right then. “Come on, let’s get you settled,” he invited, waiting for me to stand up and move with him through his apartment, then down the hall into the first room. “Do you want me to get you anything?” he asked, pulling the covers back as I toed out of my shoes.

“No,” I said, climbing in, curling up.

Nico drew the covers over me, tucking them up to my chin.

“Okay. I’m not going anywhere, though,” he said. “So if you need anything, just come and find me.”

“Thanks, Nico,” I said, voice small.

“Nothing to thank me for,” he said, going toward the door and turning the light off.

“Nico?” I asked as he started to close the door.

“Yeah?”

“Can you not… can this just be between us?” I asked, hearing the plea in my voice. “For now?” I added, knowing he couldn’t agree to keep my secret forever. Not when the alliance involved the entire family. Not when this could start an all-out war if it went on for too long.

“Yeah, honey. I won’t tell anyone,” he assured me, and I knew that I could trust him.

There was a moment of silence.

Then, “Lore?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. You are very fucking loved.”

With that, he pulled the door mostly closed, so he’d hear me if I called, and I heard his footsteps move away.

There was quiet for a second.

Before I heard him start to pace.

I knew he wanted to go track down Renzo, lash into him for making me cry, for hurting me. But that he couldn’t do it.

That unspent energy likely had him frazzled and frustrated.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, feeling another rush of useless tears escape my eyes, slipping down my temples and catching in my hair.

You are very fucking loved.

I needed to hear that.

The problem was, I was still aching to hear those words from someone else entirely.

Alone, hand pressed to my mouth to stay quiet, I let more grief pour out of me until, finally, what felt like hours later, I felt… dried out.

My heart was a pressed flower as I rolled over in bed, curling into a ball, and finally letting the relief of sleep tug at me.

But even as I started to drift off, all I thought of was him.

How long would it be until he realized I was gone?

Hours?

Days?

How long after that would it take him to give a damn? To try to find where I went? Would he even try to coax me back if he figured it out?

Even if he did, a bitter part of my brain thought, he would likely only want me back to save face in front of his family.

It wasn’t about me.

It was never about me.

I was just a willing participant in his scheme.

A woman eager to say I do.

A body in his bed that happily responded to his touch when he needed a release.

Even a mouth willing to relieve his stress.

Not an actual wife.

Not, really, even a person.

And no amount of hopeless devotion on my part was going to change the reality of the situation.

No amount of loving him could make him love me back.

As much as I wanted to deny it, though, I still did.

Love him.

I loved him like water, like air, like something necessary for survival. A part of myself that couldn’t be extracted.

Pressing my hands to my aching, swollen eyes, I willed myself to stop thinking of it, of him, of the pain that seemed sharper with each passing moment.

To just… drift away.

Into the nothingness of sleep.

Away from this reality I wanted so badly to escape.

Only to wake up to his voice.