Chapter 48

Aldo

The light and music of the ball faded behind us as we strolled from the manor. Our footsteps crunched lightly against the flagstones, and the cool night air kissed my cheeks in a welcome respite from the stifling perfumes and colognes and potpourris of the ballroom.

A gentle wind wove its fingers through my hair, as if to remind me how free the air was here—no fake laughter, no passive aggressive words delivered behind a painted smile, no tension heavy enough to thicken the air.

“Shouldn’t the don of the Mafia be back inside?” Layla asked, her voice a low murmur on the breeze as we passed the last of the gardens. “Shaking hands and making alliances? Kissing babies?”

I huffed a laugh. “Probably.”

“So this walk is an escape for you, too.”

“Something like that.” I dared a glance in her direction. The moonlight washed the pale blue from her dress, made her skin glow. She was an angel, ethereal.

She was a vision resurrected from a long-ago memory.

I slid my hands into my pockets, faced forward again. The chirp and creak of crickets filled the space between us, another reminder of how light and free the air was.

No tension, no weight of expectation.

“You’re quiet.” Layla, once again, was the one to break the silence. I glanced over, found it hard to take my eyes off her. She walked with her head high, shoulders straight—like she always had. Like the weight of the world could never bring her down.

I’d always loved that about her, that quiet, steadfast strength.

“I’m thinking,” I admitted, keeping my voice low to match hers.

“Sounds dangerous.”

I chuckled. “Probably.”

“About what?” she asked, the words surprising me. “You want to talk about it?”

Earnest blue eyes turned up towards me. She meant the question. And maybe that’s why I answered.

“About us.”

“Us.” Her voice turned cold, cautious. “Aldo—”

The words tumbled out of my mouth. “About coming to terms with the fact that you’re never going to want me back.”

She inhaled in a sharp gasp.

“And that’s all right.” My words kept flowing—no, tumbling. Crashing, like a waterfall. “I can’t blame you for that. And I need to find a way to move forward, to have a … peaceful relationship with you for the sake of our son.”

Layla didn’t answer, and I couldn’t read the lines of her profile.

“You’re right. You not wanting to be a part of this world is important.” Why was it such a relief, just letting the words fall out of me without thinking? “This is your life. And I always wanted you to be able to live it, exactly how you wanted. If I’d known … about Eli …”

I choked on the name. But continued. “But that’s neither here nor there. You're stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You could have caved—to me, to Marco, to wealth and power and the promise of a cushy life—but you haven’t.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,” Layla said, tone wry.

“It’s admiration,” I said simply. “It’s me telling you that you’re free. I’m not going to chase you anymore. Your life is your own.”

Her footsteps faltered, and as we paused, our gazes met. The weight of the past still hung between us—betrayal, loss, longing, lies—and I knew it always would. That any kind of relationship we managed would be tainted by that dark history.

“What do you mean, free?” Layla asked, her brow furrowing.

“I mean, if you really want to be away from this world,” I said, “I could arrange for you to have a new identity. A whole new life.”

Her lips parted in a silent gasp. But I couldn’t read the lines of her face, couldn’t find emotion scrawled over her expression. “And what about you and Eli?”

“What about us?”

“We could find ways to keep in touch. If that’s what you wanted. Or.” My chest clenched tight with sudden pain. “Or I’d let him go, too.”

“You’d really do that?” she asked, and my chest clenched tighter at the sound of hope in her voice.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I would.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Just studied my face, like maybe she was searching out lies. But this night had been only truths. Relieving ones. Painful ones.

Truth all the same.

Layla continued walking, still silent. Our feet echoed against the flagstones as she turned us up the property, back towards the manor. Her pace stayed slow, unharried.

The space between us was as weightless as the hum crickets on the air.

When the path diverted, she turned away from the manor towards the guesthouse, and I followed.

She paused at the door. Moonlight bathed her in an angelic white glow, turning her ethereal again. The ghost of the bride of my past.

“You can hear the music from the manor out here,” she murmured, a faint smile twisting her lips.

My chest clenched too tightly. “Layla.”

“Aldo.” Her blue eyes tilted up towards me, and that smile still turned the corner of her mouth. “Dance with me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Dance with me,” Layla repeated, her voice softer this time. “Just like old times.”

Like old times. Oh, we had certainly danced, once upon those old times. And as I hesitantly curled my fingers around her waist, took her hand in mine, those memories came rushing back in a tidal wave of nostalgia.

She stepped in close, and I felt a past Layla pressed against me.

She tilted her chin up to bathe me in her blue gaze, and I watched a past Layla throw her head back with laughter.

She shuffled her feet slowly to the music, and a past Layla swung her hips to a wild guitar tune beneath the pouring rain of a far, far away city.

To the soft jazz emanating from the manor, Layla and I circled in a slow, stiff dance, but in my mind, Layla and Vasco danced on cobblestoned streets, in the kitchen, under the stars, beneath the rain.

So effortlessly. So easy. So happy.

My hands tightened instinctively around her to pull her minutely closer. In my arms like this, she was so achingly familiar. So heartbreakingly distant.

“Do you remember that night in Florence?” Layla asked, a wistful smile playing on her lips as she tilted her head back up towards me.

“The street performer,” I agreed, my mouth shadowing hers in the ghost of a smile.

“You insisted we join them.” She chuckled. Softly. “Even though neither of us knew the steps.”

“I seem to recall we managed just fine,” I countered, my smile growing.

“You stepped on my toes at least twice.”

“I did not!” But I was laughing now, too. And for the briefest moment, the two Laylas and the two Vascos collided, became one. For an instant in time, it was just us, joined by music.

The song faded, and our dance did, too. I pulled back half a step, though I didn’t take my fingers her waist, from her hand.

Couldn’t, not when she felt so warm and safe and right. Not when her gaze lingered on mine, soft and unreadable.

“Thank you,” she said finally.

“For the dance?”

“For offering me a way out,” she said, and my chest squeezed so tightly and so suddenly, I nearly gasped. The thought of losing her—

But I’d promised. “I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

Before I could respond, she stepped closer, those blue eyes still fixed on mine. And without thinking, I leaned in.

She didn’t pull away.

Our lips met. Softly, the faintest brush. But with so much love and pain and heartbreak between us, nothing could ever be soft or simple—even a fluttering touch.

She pulled back.

Blue eyes still on me. “Good night, Aldo.”

Without another word, she turned and pushed through the door behind her.

“Good night, Layla,” I echoed into the empty night.