Chapter 17: Not Forgiveness

We never got on the plane.

I made the call in the hotel lobby at midnight, with the card from my father in my fist.

"We're not flying home. We're going to his house on Sunday at ten, all of us, through the front door."

Tiberio took Nerina into the room next to mine and sat down in the armchair by her bed with his coat on.

"I'll sleep here," he said. "She won't be alone for a second."

Nerina was already out, worn flat by the attack, with her face turned to the wall.

I carried Rosa into my room and laid her in the hotel's portable crib.

Ruggero stood in the doorway.

"I'll take the sofa in the sitting room," he said.

"There's a door between us."

"I know."

"Shut it."

He shut it, and we stood on either side of the suite's little hallway.

I had spent the whole night counting a pulse, and I was shaking now that nobody needed me.

"Mari."

"Don't talk."

"You're cold."

"I said don't."

I walked up to him and pushed him back against the wall by his shirt.

"This isn't forgiveness," I said.

"I know it isn't."

"Say it back."

"It isn't forgiveness."

"I'm still angry at you. I'll be angry on Sunday. I'll be angry when you're old."

"Yes."

"And I want you so badly my hands hurt."

His chest went up and down under my palms.

"Then take what you want," he said, hoarse.

I kissed him hard enough to taste blood.

He let me.

He kept his hands against the wall until I pulled them down and put them on my hips.

"Better," I said.

I tore his shirt open, because I wanted to, and a button hit the carpet.

His arm was healed under my fingers, a rope of new scar across the muscle, my own stitches in his skin.

I put my mouth on it.

He swore, low.

I pushed him toward the bed and he went down on his back, and I climbed over him and pulled my sweater off.

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