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“You’re impossible,” she snaps, but there’s no real fight in her words. Her cheeks are flushed and as her finger traces her swollen lips, I know I’ve affected her. She liked that kiss. Not nearly as much as I did, though.
And my point is made—I’m buying that ring, and I want it on her finger.
Moments later, Giuseppe reappears. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries; instead, he snatches Aly’s hand and admires his handiwork. “Perfect for her, isn’t it?” he says, absolutely sure that we feel the same way. Presenting his open palm to Aly, he looks my way to explain, “I am going to polish it and make a small alteration for fit. It’ll be ready in an hour.”
Then, in painstakingly slow Italian, as if addressing a child, he says to Aly, “Congratulazioni per il tuo prossimo matrimonio.” Congratulations on your upcoming marriage.
I’m about to translate for her when Aly leans forward and inperfect fucking Italiansays to him, “Thank you for your hospitality. You have a lovely little shop, but sadly, Leo and I won’t be coming back here for a wedding. I’m actually just using him for his body.”
She punctuates her words with a wink and then, with a sway of her hips that has me swallowing hard, she saunters out of the shop.
I stand there, stunned into silence for a moment before shocked laughter rumbles in my chest.
Well played, Alyona. Well played.
Giuseppe claps me on the shoulder. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” he says before closing the door behind me.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
ALYONA
The nightmarealways starts the same. My parents are fighting, their voices angry. Sharp. They think they’re whispering, but I can still hear them with my ear pressed to the door. I catch snippets. Words like, “needs to know,” and “it’ll only get harder.”
The words swirl and echo in my brain like a bad song. Who are they talking about? They hardly ever fight, but when they do, like now, it’s scary. Mama’s crying and Papa’s voice is all wrong. It doesn’t sound like him—the Papa who gives me sweets and calls mezaychik, his little bunny.
Something crashes and breaks, and I jump back from the door. Mama’s voice gets louder now, like she’s really scared, and then something else breaks. It’s too much—the yelling, the crying, the smashing stuff. I can’t stand here a moment longer.
I run to my favorite place, the tree house. Crammed with dolls, books, and my silly cartoon drawings, this is where the world makes sense. The loud voices fade away, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the smell of worn-in wood.
My breathing eases and my body calms down. It feels safe in this place, and I get lost in my book, forgetting about the chaos I just escaped. Everything is better until the first rumble of the storm.
Lightning flashes in the sky, followed by the loud crash of thunder. The tree sways violently in the wind, and I know I shouldn’t have stayed, but it’s too late for me to leave now. Worst of all, nobody knows where I am. I could die out here. Alone.
I hide against the wall, but the rain sneaks in anyway. It’s so icy cold, it glues my clothes to my skin. But what’s scarier is the lightning. It flashes, wild and bright, followed by the intense boom of thunder.
I squeeze my dolls tight, curl into a tiny ball and rock, trying to imagine myself somewhere else. Somewhere warm, and safe, where the wind and the rain and the lightning can’t reach me.
It feels like I’m here forever.
It’s Yulian who finally comes for me. When he scoops me up, I’m barely awake. I manage to peek at him. His eyes look scared, too, and he’s crying. His shouts for help mix with the thunder as I bury myself into his chest.
BOOM!
Jolting awake, I hastily swipe the sleep from my eyes as a cold tremor works through me. Heavy rain lashes against the windows so loud it drowns out the frightened whimper that slips from my lips. I pull a pillow over my head, hoping to hide from the storm raging outside that’s reflecting the one of that memory. The nightmare is a memory triggered every time the sky rages and the wind howls and lightning streaks the sky.
Like now.
I hate this; I wish I wasn’t like this. While I no longer seek refuge in closets like I did as a child, a wild storm like this still has the power to knock the wind from my lungs. My skin is cold and clammy, my eyes squeezed shut, nausea twisting my belly as I sink inwards, retreating to the place where nothing or no one can reach me.
Just as I’m slipping away, strong arms draw me tight against a warm familiar body. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world—my face burrows into his chest, the thud of his heart humming in my ear. One of his hands skims over my hair and down my back, soothing me. A barrier against the chaos in my head.
“Breathe, Alyona. Just breathe. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
I suck in air through my nostrils, counting to four silently, holding the breath for another four-count before letting it escape, and then repeating. It’s a technique called box breathing, a trick my therapist taught me to combat the panic.
“Good girl,” Leo murmurs. “Keep on going.”
It takes three more rounds before the tremors subside, before my heart stops thudding wildly, and I find the strength to peel my eyes open. When I do, Leo’s worried gaze meets mine. His forehead creases, lips pressed in a thin line as he studies me closely.
