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“Lucia told me never to lie to you, but I knew if I told you the truth, I would lose you. Every day I spent with you, every night I spent in your arms, made it harder for me to even think about losing you. I can’t believe you thought I would try to have you killed,” she says as another tear escapes down her cheek
“I know, and I don’t know what else to say,” I say, wiping it away with my finger.
“Does everybody know the truth about Anton?” She asks fearfully.
“Nobody knows. Only your pop knows what happened in Chicago.”
“And?” She asks apprehensively
“And nothing?You’re safe, that is all that matters.”
“When do I get out of here? It’s like sleeping under a microscope.”
“As soon as the tests come back, we’ll get you back home.”
“To the penthouse or my parents’ house?”
“No,ourhome.”
I stroke her face slowly, and she closes her eyes taking in my touch. I want to melt her fears and worries away, but I know it will be easier said than done.
“I don’t know if I want to go back to Long Beach. I don’t think I’m ready to snap back like nothing ever happened,” she mumbles.
“I don’t expect you to. I just want you to be comfortable and safe where I can protect you the most. We don’t even have to share a bedroom, but I want you to consider us getting back on track at some point.”
“Do you really want that? After everything you know, the fact that I was engaged to another before you, a Russian, you still accept me?”
“Yes, I want you and only you, I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you and the baby.”
“I’ll consider it,” she starts.
“But?” I say, sensing hesitation.
“I want you to make up with your Ma.”
“What?” I say, surprised.
My mother? I haven’t thought about her in forever. I know Sophia found the stash of birthday cards and letters in my office, but I didn’t even think she would remember it. My own hesitation brews inside me. I don’t know how I will react trying to reconcile with my first betrayal; my own mother walking out on me.
“If you can forgive your mama, I can think about forgiving you.”
“Sophia, you’re asking a lot. We’re talking about major wounds.”
“So are we, Rocco. You can’t expect me to forgive you if you can’t extend the same to her. At least hear her side of the story.”
“Fine,” I say sighing.
“Good,” she says, laying down.
“Are you not even going to kiss me?” I say, bemused.
“You’re going to have to earn that all over again.” She smirks.
“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
—Emily Brontë
THREE MONTHS LATER
