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I never did get a reply from Alex to say it was okay that I come, but I just need to at least drop off the money. That’s all. Apologize in person. I don’t know. All I know is I owe him because he has two broken legs because of me.
Those are the thoughts that I busy myself with as I step out into the dark night. I hug my arms to myself even though it’s not cold and, after making sure the path is clear, I hurry toward the large truck parked near the fence, scoot around it and a few moments later, I’m on the street walking quickly away from the house wondering how I was able to do it, counting my lucky stars.
I know Rome pretty well, although this neighborhood not as much. But I walk back the way we’d driven and fifteen minutes later, I get to a gas station with an attached café and walk in. Only a couple of tables are occupied but there aren’t enough people here that I can go unnoticed.
Everyone turns when the bell over the door jingles as I enter. I tuck my hair behind my ears and make my way to the counter where two men stand sipping espressos.
The bartender acknowledges me and, after ordering an espresso I won’t drink, I ask if I can use the phone to call a taxi. He does one better and calls it for me, and I pay for my coffee with the credit card then walk back outside to wait for the taxi which pulls up just a few minutes later.
This is too easy, I think, but I climb in and give him the address, which is about a half-hour ride.
The driver eyes me in the rear-view mirror but I ignore him and settle in as we drive, thinking I’ll ask him to wait and drive me back to Uncle Jack’s and sneak back into my room without anyone noticing I even left. Even if Stefan comes back, if he peers into my bedroom, he’ll see the pillows and assume I’m sleeping and that will be that.
And if I do get caught, I’ll deal with the consequences. I’m sure Stefan will punish me, but I’ve survived Gabriel Marchese’s wrath. How much worse can Stefan Sabbioni be?
When we pull up to the house, I ask the driver to wait, telling him I’ll pay him for that time too. He agrees and I climb out.
This isn’t the best neighborhood, and I’m aware of that as I make my way to the front door of the small house that belongs to Alex’s aunt.
I only know where it is because Alex’s dad worked for my father years ago when we were all kids. A couple of times, my mom would let us pick Alex up and take him with us when we went to a park or a pool. His mom had died when he was just a baby, so I guess in that sense, I was lucky. I had my mom for eight years.
Before I push the button to ring the doorbell, I twist my engagement ring so the diamond is on the inside. I hope Alex won’t see it.
I realize the doorbell doesn’t work so I pull open the screen, which wobbles on its hinges, and knock loudly. There’s a light on around the back of the house which I saw walking up here, but the front room is dark.
A few minutes and two more knocks later, I hear the chain and the lock turns and Alex’s aunt, a fifty-something woman with small features and a look of worry on her face opens the door.
That worry turns darker the moment she sees me.
I greet her, pretending I don’t see the way she’s looking at me. She mutters something, makes the sign of the cross. I don’t need to catch the words to know what she’s trying to say.
She doesn’t want me here.
And when I see Alex roll up behind her on a wheelchair, both legs in casts up to the thigh and stretched straight out in front of him, I can understand why.
“Alex!” I rush in, tears flooding my eyes.
I saw him beaten. I heard his bones break. And as terrible as that was, this, the result, the consequence he bore for me, it’s more overwhelming than all of it.
“Gabi,” Alex says when I hug him, trying not to hurt him as I do.
He hugs me back as best he can, one arm around my shoulders as I bury my face in his neck.
“I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
“We talked about this,” he says, pulling back.
I straighten and look down at him, look at the stitches on the side of his head where the doctors must have shaved his hair to close the cut. I remember when he’d been struck by the broken beer bottle and I hate the man who did it.
