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“You are being a fucking dick.” He took a threatening step toward me, his mouth flat and tight. “You broke what was between us, not me.”
He wanted a fight? I was more than ready.
I threw the ax down and snarled, “And I have apologized and begged your forgiveness for it. Yet you are determined to hold onto your anger like a badge of honor. Too proud to forgive because of how it might look to your stupid mafia and precious father. Too scared to be your own man.”
“Oh, fuck you,” he shouted.
“No, fuck you, Giulio. I’m tired of doing this with you. Either leave me alone or forgive me. Stop kissing me one minute then telling me how much you don’t want me the next.”
“You have no right to be angry with me. You almost killed my father—and then lied to me about it!”
“He was a fucking job, no different than the countless other jobs I’ve carried out in my career. I didn’t know you when I accepted it. I certainly never knew I’d fall in love with you later. People make mistakes, principe. Maybe not you, because you are perfect, no? But us regular people do.”
“I have made mistakes,” he said defensively, “but this is not about me. It’s about you. Quit trying to turn it around.”
I scowled at the ground. I was too exhausted, too heartsick for this any longer. I’d taken a beating in that dungeon for him, gone to Palermo to kill Buscetta to keep him safe. Turned over all my money. I couldn’t prove myself anymore.
I needed him gone.
Picking up the ax, I placed a fresh log on the stump. “You’ve said what you came to say. You can go now.” I held the ax over my head and swung it down. My hands howled in pain, my barely-healed arm throbbing with each movement. I hardly noticed.
“Madre di dio, you are stubborn.”
That was funny, coming from him.
I didn’t speak. My chest was on fire, misery strangling my heart, and I was afraid I might start begging in a moment. I pressed my lips together, trying to not make more of a fool of myself with this man.
Several minutes passed where the only sound was the blade slicing through wood. The thump of the logs when I threw them onto the pile. Sheep moving in the background. I didn’t check to see if he’d left. I told myself I didn’t care.
Then he appeared, walking over to examine the woodpile. “Is all this just from today?”
I split another log in answer.
“You’re bleeding, Alessio.”
I looked down. The ax handle was red with blood, the blisters on my palms cracked open.
Giulio was suddenly in front of me, taking the ax away and grabbing my wrists. I tried to pull away, but he held tight, examining my hands. “Come inside. Let me bandage them.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“They will. I don’t know why you aren’t wearing gloves.” He snatched my wrist and began tugging me toward the farmhouse. His grip was strong.
He’s touching me.
My muscles relaxed and I allowed him to bring me inside. “Sit on a stool,” he said. “Let me get the supplies.”
I did as ordered and rested my throbbing hands on the counter. The marble was cool against my overheated skin. Seconds later, he returned carrying the medical supplies. Then he went to the sink and flicked on the water. “Let’s wash them first.”
I came around and stood next to him at the sink. After he tested the water temperature, he motioned for my hands. I placed them in his palms and he gently moved them under the water. I hissed and tried to pull away, but he held fast. “Why did you do this to yourself?”
There was no good answer for that, so I stayed quiet. He took the soap and began cleaning my hands. His touch was light and careful. We were so close that our shoulders were pressed together, and I could see every rise and fall of his chest. The sweep of his lashes as he blinked. The kiss of whiskers on his jaw and the slight bow of his upper lip.
“Stop staring at me,” he said quietly, still concentrating on my hands.
“I can’t help it,” I admitted. “Sei bello.”
He moved my hands under the water to rinse the soap off. “Giving me the money won’t bring me back.”
