Walking backward so my eyes never leave her, I take in the sadness she radiates. Crossing the apartment, I close my bedroom door behind me, changing quickly before heading to my en suite to toss my clothes in the hamper and wash my face to remove the sweat.
It’s less than five minutes later when I reenter the room and take a seat on the couch next to her. She hasn’t moved, but she does look up at me once I’m settled, her gray-blue eyes glassy with unshed tears.
“What happened,Vincenza?”
She sighs, leaning forward with her elbows on the tops of her knees, rubbing her temples. “Look, I’m sorry I showed up here. Honestly, I’m not even sure why I ended up here in the first place. Thank you for letting me come up, but I think I should go.”
She stands, and the moment she does, I grab her wrist and gently pull her back down to the couch. “You camehere, whether it was conscious or not. Tell me what happened, Vincenza.”
Her eyes search mine, but I don’t back down. I also don’t let go of her wrist. Instead, I find myself rubbing her skin rhythmically.
Silence stretches between us, and I can see the inner battle she fights.
I’m fighting a similar one—the hesitancy to knock down the walls standing between us. But I feel like mine have crumbled almost completely, laying in a pile at my feet. The instinct to protect her—to be in her presence—is too strong for me to resist.
“Please, Vincenza. I cannot help if you don’t tell me what's going on.”
I want to help.
She relents. “My brother Joseph and his friend are scheming. For some reason, August has his sights set on me, and together they’re laying the groundwork to have my father agree to him marrying me.”
“Why would August want to marry you if you do not love him?” The notion makes no sense. August St. Jean is a wealthy man. Adesired, wealthy man. He could pick any woman in this city and she’d sign whatever pre-nup heasked, just so she could become his bride.Whywould he want someone who isn’t falling at his feet in adoration?
“Business, I’m sure of it. Who knows in what capacity.”
“And your father? Would he agree?”
“That’s where your guess is as good as mine. My father loves me—we have a great relationship. But the relationship between him and his business undoubtedly runs far deeper. I wouldn’t put it past him to at least strongly urge a marriage if he thought it was in his best interest.”
“And would you agree to it? If your father urged it?”
“Absolutely not!” she snaps, pulling her arm out of my grasp. She stands and begins pacing the space in front of my couch. “The sky would need to be falling before I marry a man like August St. Jean. He’s a disgusting,revolting,sexist piece of work.”
The anger rolls off her in waves as she speaks. Her body language tells me she’s still holding back—there’s a piece of this story she’s not sharing—but it’s not my place to ask.
For whatever reason, she came to me for solace, and rather than dig for the information she is not freely giving, I can just bring her the comfort she seeks.
Standing, I reach my hand out hesitantly, before closing the final distance between us and clasping it around hers. Without our fingers laced, it feels less intimate of a gesture.
Afriendlygesture, if you will.
Because that’s all I can be to her—a friend.
I shouldn’t even be that.
But I already crave to bemore.
This is a problem—her and I.
Us.
In the same room.
She’s apiccola ladra, a little thief. Already stealing pieces of my heart away with every glance in my direction.
I shouldn’twantto help her—shouldn’t care.
But I do. So quickly, I’ve done a one-eighty in my outlook on Vincenza Paladino, and quickly I feel the line of my loyalty blurring. Friendship shouldn’t even be a thought in my mind, let alone more. Yet, it’s all I can think of.
