Page 31 of Ruthless Vow
The bedroom is too full of him. His warmth across the mattress. His breathing, too controlled for real sleep. The careful distance we maintain, inches apart but miles away.
I lie awake, tracing the ceiling cracks, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
I give up around two in the morning.
The kitchen is quiet. Moonlight casts everything in silver. My feet are bare against the cool tile.
The spice rack is a disaster. Organized by color. Red paprika next to red chili flakes next to cinnamon. Chaos disguised as order.
I start reorganizing. Alphabetical. The one thing I can control when everything else is shifting sand.
Nonna Rosa appears at the threshold. Worn robe, slippers, gray hair loose around her shoulders.
She looks at me. At the spice jars. At the clock on the wall.
She doesn’t ask what I’m doing. She puts the kettle on.
“Couldn’t sleep neither,cher.” That soft New Orleans lilt turning words to music. “Some nights are like that. The house gets too loud, even when it’s quiet.”
She brings me a cup of tea. Sets it beside my reorganized spices.
“Lucia used to do this. Not spices. Books.” Nonna Rosa settles against the counter. “She’d rearrange the whole library when her mind wouldn’t settle. Salvatore would find her at dawn, surrounded by stacks, happy as could be. He never understood it. But he loved watchin’ her anyway.”
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic. “They were happy?”
“Deliriously.” Nonna Rosa’s eyes go soft. “That man worshiped the ground she walked on. And she loved him just as fierce. When she died.” She shakes her head. “Part of him went with her. The rest just took eleven years to follow.”
We stand in the quiet kitchen, drinking tea. The compound sleeps around us.
“He’s different with you, dawlin’.” Nonna Rosa studies me over her cup. “I’ve known that boy since the day he came into this world. Watched him build walls so high I thought no one would ever get over them.”
“He doesn’t let me in either.”
“No?” Her eyes sharpen. “Then why’s he teachin’ himself to make coffee with creamer? Tell me that.”
I don’t have an answer.
She pats my hand. Shuffles back to bed.
I finish the spice rack. Wash my cup. Climb the stairs.
He’s awake. I can tell by the quality of his stillness. Coiled, alert, listening.
I slide into bed. Maintain the distance.
“Where were you?”
Rough. Quiet. Like he’s been waiting.
“Kitchen. Couldn’t sleep.”
A pause. “You reorganized something.”
“The spices.”
“Nonna Rosa’s going to kill you.”
“Her system was chaotic.”
