I led her down to the light-flooded living room with the majestic French windows. Her eyes darted to the piano on the right. Her brows furrowed as she peered up at me.
“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to. I know you never enjoyed it, but…”
“I remember you telling me in the basement that you hoped to hear me play the piano one day.”
I didn’t say anything. She was right, though. She licked her lips, then tugged me toward the piano. She sat on the purpleleather bench but didn’t start playing. Her hands rested in her lap. She patted the spot beside her. I sank onto the bench.
Amelia placed her fingers on the keys, then closed her eyes. “It’s been a while for me.”
She started playing “Clair de lune.” I released a deep breath and relaxed. I remembered hating this song whenever my teacher forced me to play it, but listening to Amelia play it, I decided it was beautiful.
“You can join me if you want,” Amelia whispered as she glanced at me, but she never stopped playing.
I stared at the keys, then lifted my hands. The notes I played ruined the beautiful melody. I never had trouble handling a knife, but my fingers, scarred by years of torture, weren’t nimble enough to match Amelia’s skill. I jerked my hands back with a scowl. “I’m not good. I ruined the song.”
Amelia froze. “You didn’t ruin anything.” She reached for one of my hands and traced my scars with her fingertips. “I love your hands. I love how they give me pleasure, how they wipe away my tears, how they touch me as if I were the most precious thing in the world.”
“You are,” I murmured.
Amelia kissed my palm, then she returned her fingers to the keys and continued to play. “Do you want me to continue?”
“Yes.”
She held my gaze as her fingers danced over the keys. The rage and despair over my scarred hands vanished as I listened to her play. Eventually, she stopped. I cupped her cheeks and kissed her. “I imagined this moment, but my imagination failed to capture the full scope of your beauty.”
“Did you hear?” Niccolo asked as he picked me up after my fight in the amphitheater. I had won and killed two opponents. The crowd had chanted my name, but their faces had reflected abhorrence and fear. They couldn’t stay away, even if my actions disturbed them. It was the drug of choice in their pathetic lives, a little otherworldly charm for their ordinary existence.
I slid into the passenger seat. “Did I hear what?”
“Remo Falcone got married. He now lives in Falcone manor with the Mione twin and the twins they have together.”
I frowned. Remo had kidnapped a woman from the Outfit, but he later returned her. It seemed impossible that Remo, who was like me in so many ways, managed to have a family.
“You seem surprised.”
“I am.”
“Why? If you can make a marriage work, why can’t he? You two aren’t that different.”
I nodded. He was right. But being with Amelia was one thing. She was almost a part of me, but creating life and caring for it were entirely different matters. Amelia and I both had lost our mothers early and been subjected to brutal fathers. We didn’t know the first thing about being a decent parent.
“Can you see me as a father?” I asked.
Niccolo slanted me a cautious look as he pulled up to the gates of Amelia’s and my home.
“I have never thought about it. Have you?”
“No.” Amelia and I had never bridged the subject either. We had spent the last three years together building a new life, a new home. Niccolo dropped me off at the base of the hill, as had become our ritual. I walked up the driveway past the sprawling flower beds that Amelia had planted herself. Dahlia, cosmea, hydrangea, sea asters, and many more flowers created an ocean of dark pink, white, lavender, and deep purple. I followed the path up to our house. Every time I caught a glimpse of the new Romano Manor, with its dark façade, arched windows, and glass dome, I let out a deep breath. I marveled at how the big windows in the front reflected the gardens, making it look as if the inside of the house, too, was filled with trees and flowers, and bushes.
I opened the door to our house, breathing in the fresh air. Maybe this was how freedom smelled; light, with a distant, flowery note. In the center of the entrance hall, a huge bouquet of dark purple dahlias and dark pink cosmea decorated a dark wood table. Flower arrangements brightened every room of the house. I took my bone crown off my head and removed the heavy fur coat, then stashed both of them in the wooden chest in the cloakroom. Those belonged to the man, the monster, outside of these walls, not to the man I allowed myself to be with only Amelia.
In black linen pants and barefoot, I walked into the living area, which seemed to be right in the garden through the two big french windows. Amelia wasn’t at the piano. The piano had been an invitation, and she played every night without prompting. It was my favorite part of the day. I’d never joined her again. Hearing her play was everything I needed.
My feet relished in the softness of the dark purple rug as I crossed the distance toward the windows. One of them was open, and I went outside, following the low hum down to Amelia’s newest creation: a flower bed with native wildflowers that bloomed in dark blues, steel gray, and bloodred. She stood amid the hip-high flowers and plucked the most beautiful blooms for another bouquet. She wore a big straw hat and a flowy white dress with spaghetti straps.
Her face lit up with a smile when she spotted me, and my chest filled with peace.
The darkness always caught up with me. It was a part of me, but with Amelia, I learned to live in the light.
