Chapter 82 -
“From what?” Nia asked. “From yourself? From the possibility that you might actually be happy? From the terrifying prospect that maybe, just maybe, you deserve to have something good in your life?”
“I do not deserve anything good,” Leo said, and there was so much pain in his voice that Nia felt her anger falter. “Everyone I care about dies, Nia. My father, Andrea, every single person who has ever made the mistake of loving me ends up in the ground. So forgive me if I do not want to add you to that list.”
“That is not how this works,” Nia said. Her voice was softer now, the fight draining out of her as exhaustion and hurt took its place. “You cannot control who lives and dies. You cannot protect everyone. Bad things happen and sometimes there is nothing you can do to stop them.”
“I could stop this,” Leo said. He gestured between them, at the space that felt charged with everything they had done and said. “I can protect you from me. And that is what I am going to do.”
“By pushing me away,” Nia said.
“Yes,” Leo said.
“By pretending you do not care,” Nia said.
“Yes,” Leo said again.
“By breaking my heart before I can break yours,” Nia finished quietly.
Leo flinched like she had hit him. His hands clenched into fists again and she watched his knuckles go white. “Rosa!” he called out, his voice carrying down the hallway.
The sound of footsteps came almost immediately. Rosa must have been close, maybe woken by their raised voices, maybe summoned by some sixth sense that trouble was happening in her house. She appeared at the end of the hallway in her nightgown and robe, her gray hair in a braid over her shoulder.
“Boss?” she asked, taking in the scene with sharp eyes. Nia standing in the doorway of Leo’s room, Leo standing several feet back, both of them looking like they had been through a war.
“Take Miss Wallace back to her room,” Leo said. His voice was back under control now, flat and emotionless. The Enforcer giving orders. “Make sure she gets there safely.”
Rosa stood in the doorway of Leo’s forbidden wing, her gray braid hanging over one shoulder, her robe pulled tight against the early morning chill. She did not look surprised to find Nia there, tears streaming down her face, standing in the hallway like someone who had just had their heart torn out. Rosa had probably seen this scene play out before, in different variations, with different people. The DeSanto family specialized in breaking things, including the people who made the mistake of caring about them.
“Come on, dear,” Rosa said. Her voice was gentle but firm, the kind of tone you used when you were trying to coax a wounded animal into accepting help. She held out one hand, palm up, waiting.
Nia did not resist. She did not have the energy left to fight anymore. All the whiskey and the courage and the reckless hope that had carried her to Leo’s door had drained away, leaving her hollow and aching. She took Rosa’s offered hand, letting the older woman’s fingers close around hers with a warmth that made her want to cry all over again.
Before they left, Nia turned back one last time. She could not help it. Some stupid part of her still hoped that Leo might have changed his mind, might be standing there looking like he regretted every word he had said, might call her back and tell her he was wrong.
But Leo was not looking at her. He had turned away, his back to the door, his shoulders rigid with tension. One hand was braced against his dresser like he needed the support to stay standing. He was still shirtless, still had that kiss-swollen mouth and mussed hair that made Nia’s chest ache with the memory of how good it had felt to touch him.
But he would not meet her eyes. Would not turn around. Would not give her anything except his silence and his rejection and the cold certainty that this was over before it had really begun.
“Come,” Rosa said again, tugging gently on Nia’s hand. “There is nothing more for you here tonight.”
Nia let herself be led away. Down the hallway with its dark wood floors and abstract paintings that probably cost more than most people made in a year. Past the portraits of dead DeSantos who stared down at her with judgment in their painted eyes. Away from the forbidden wing and the man who lived there, locked up with his ghosts and his guilt.
The walk back felt longer than it had on the way there. Every step echoed against the marble, too loud in the pre-dawn quiet. Nia’s legs felt shaky, uncertain, like they might give out at any moment. The whiskey was wearing off now, leaving behind a headache that pulsed behind her eyes and a sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Rosa did not say anything. She just held Nia’s hand and walked beside her, her presence steady and solid and somehow comforting even though Nia felt like nothing would ever be comforting again.
They passed the dining room where Nia had eaten so many tense meals surrounded by people who barely tolerated each other. The library where she had spent hours reading to escape the reality of her captivity. The sunroom where Lucia had warned her about caring for a DeSanto man, where she had insisted that her heart was not involved even though they both knew she was lying.
Lucia had been right. Of course she had been right. She had lived in this house longer than Nia, had married into this family, had learned the hard way what happened when you let yourself love someone who was too broken to love you back.
“I should have listened to her,” Nia said. The words came out thick, distorted by the tears still sliding down her face. “Lucia. She tried to warn me.”
“Lucia has her own wounds,” Rosa said quietly. “They make her see the world a certain way. But that does not mean she is always right.”
“She was right about this,” Nia said. “She told me that caring about a DeSanto man was the fastest way to break my own heart. And look at me. Broken.”
“You are hurt,” Rosa corrected gently. “That is not the same as broken. Broken things cannot be fixed. Hurt things heal.”
“Do they?” Nia asked. “Because right now it feels like I am going to feel like this forever.”
“You will not,” Rosa said with absolute certainty. “I have lived in this house for forty years, child. I have seen people survive worse than a kiss that should not have happened and a man too afraid to let himself feel. You will heal. It will just take time.”
They reached Nia’s hallway. Matteo was pacing outside her door, his usually impassive face creased with worry. When he saw them approaching, relief flooded his expression.