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When I walk out of the room with Carlo beside me and Emilio at my back, the corner of my mouth lifts.
Finally, I can take a fucking vacation.
Chapter 44
Gabriella
Even though I didn’t have much of an appetite, I made Coda alla vaccinara for Mamma, knowing she loves oxtail.
I hope Stefano suffers a lot.
It’s all I’ve been thinking about since we arrived home after attending the funeral.
I can’t believe Aunt Greta’s gone.
I glance at Mamma, where she’s sitting in an armchair with her eyes closed.
“How are you doing, Mamma?” I murmur.
Slowly, she opens her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. “I keep listening for Greta. It’s so quiet without her.
I know.
“Should I switch on the TV?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’m actually tired, cara. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Let me walk with you to your room.”
I get up from the chair and help Mamma to her feet.
As we walk to her bedroom, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and give her a sideways hug, then say, “Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make you feel better.”
We stop near her door, and she gently pats my cheek. “You’re already helping, mia figlia.”
Hearing her call me her daughter, I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tightly. My voice is hoarse as I whisper, “Ti voglio bene, Mamma.”
“Ti voglio bene, cara.” A loving smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You’re such a blessing to me.”
I pull back and swallow hard on the tears from the special moment we’re sharing. “I hope you sleep well.”
Mamma pats my shoulder, then I watch as she walks into her room before I pull the door shut so she’ll have privacy.
Tugging my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, I walk toward the stairs so I can head up to my bedroom. When I come around a corner, I slam into a solid wall of muscle.
Damiano’s hands fly to my shoulders to keep me from staggering backward, and the next second, I’m squashed to his chest.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Sorry, I was deep in thought.” I glance up and smile at him. “You’re home.”
“I’m home,” he murmurs.
Taking my hand, he leads me to our room, and after shutting the door behind us, I’m pulled back into his arms. He rests his hand behind my head and practically curls his body around mine.
“I missed you,” I sigh against his shirt that smells like blood and sweat. “But you need to shower. You smell like death.”
Damiano lets out a chuckle, the sound still foreign to hear because he doesn’t do it often.
