Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  Naturally, as soon as I hung up with Paola, my mom and sisters went right back to texting, begging me to be more proactive in finding Grace.

  Basically, I was stuck.

  I had the police on one side, insisting I sit tight and let them do their job—AKA, rock. And my family on the other, demanding I Do Something to locate Grace—AKA, hard place.

  Sheesh.

  I finished getting ready and wandered into the great room, greeting Chiara with a smile. She had been busy overnight too, researching.

  We were at the kitchen table, bent over her laptop looking at known dig sites associated with Jack Knight-Snow when Branwell walked into the apartment.

  Sitting behind Chiara, I forgot to be circumspect in my appreciation of his fine physique, letting my eyes run over him from top to bottom. He was in perfect Branwell form—loose gray button-down shirt with embroidered edges, jeans, gloves, man bun and groomed beard. No bulges underneath his shirtsleeves, so his scrapes must have healed enough to no longer need bandages.

  Branwell met my gaze, startled, clearly not expecting me to be so openly obvious. Though he did smile at my oversized, lounging t-shirt. (Apathetics Unite! Or don’t. Whatever.)

  I shot him a reassuring smile and ducked my head, my cheeks burning. I needed to behave. I couldn’t do anything in front of his family that would give rise to difficult questions.

  But behind their backs or when we were alone? Could we negotiate something of a truce, one where I could be a little less guarded?

  “Alright. No news on Roberto,” Chiara was saying. “He is a person of supreme interest for everyone right now. The museum people have clammed up, claiming they have no comment due to the on-going investigation. Which means I have no way of finding out who this mysterious woman-friend of Roberto’s might be. That said, I do have a small lead. Come look at this, Bran.” Chiara motioned with her fingers, oblivious to the tension between Branwell and myself.

  Branwell sat down on the other side of his sister. As far away from me as possible, given the scenario.

  A thread of hurt twinged through me, but I ruthlessly pushed it down. He had never been, nor ever would be, mine. Learning that I loved him changed nothing, in the end. If anything, it made him more wary. I got it.

  “Here’s a map of all the known archaeological dig sites.” Chiara angled the computer screen toward him. “I managed to pull some family records of land we’ve owned in centuries past, but I’m still working to compile a more comprehensive list. That said, there are a couple sites that look promising, as they are close to D’Angelo lands and have been part of Roberto’s excavations too.”

  Branwell examined the map, studiously not looking at me. “It’s such a long shot to assume that anything related to Jack and Sofia might be a factor in Grace’s disappearance.”

  “True. But it’s the only lead that we can pursue right now.” Chiara shrugged. “Gruncle Jack uncovered something that Roberto is obsessed with understanding. Roberto has implied that this something is supernatural in origin.”

  “And just the assumption of a connection between the object and Gruncle Jack’s bloodline could be enough for Roberto to act, particularly if he’s obsessed with the occult and wacko,” I said.

  “True.” Branwell grunted, studying the map some more. “In the end, retracing Roberto’s steps and researching Jack and Sofia’s connection might be the best approach. Particularly as we keep hitting roadblocks with trying to find Roberto himself.”

  “Read my mind, bro.”

  Branwell and Chiara spent a solid thirty minutes pulling each location up on Google Maps street view and discussed them.

  I chewed on my bottom lip as they talked, replaying Inspector Paola’s words from earlier. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t take kindly to me showing up at Etruscan archaeological digs related to Roberto Moretti.

  “You’re being awfully quiet over there,” Branwell said, leaning forward to look at me across the keys of Chiara’s laptop. “You good with our ideas?”

  I swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, I think you guys are spot on.”

  Branwell raised his eyebrows, prompting me to elaborate.

  “Inspector Paola had some choice words this morning about our visit to the museum yesterday. She basically told me to stay out of her investigation—and by extension, you guys too—or she would lock me up.”

  “What? She can’t do that.” Branwell’s brows drew down into a line of thunderclouds. He paused and then looked at his sister. “Wait . . . can she do that?”

  “Yes and no.” Chiara pursed her lips. “Italian law is similar to American law when it comes to investigating crimes. They can’t lock up Lucy without probable cause. That said, if Paola gets a bee in her bonnet, she could find enough ‘probable cause’ to convince a magistrate.”

  “Do you know her? Inspector Paola?” I asked.

  “Sorta. She’s extremely competent but hard-nosed . . . basically, a woman in a macho man’s world with a giant chip on her shoulder.”

  “Gotcha.” Branwell sat back with a sigh. “She’s essentially daring Lucy to knock that chip off.”

  “Yep,” Chiara agreed.

  “Sooooo . . .” I drew out the sound. “What do we do?”

  “We be careful.” Chiara tapped her fingers on the table. “As long as no one sees you guys, no one will know.”

  “Agreed,” Branwell said.

  “How though?” I still doubted. “I mean, these are important ancient sites.”

  “Eh, Italy is not like the States where archaeological sites are rare and, therefore, watched over. There are just too many. You honestly could dig a hole anywhere in this country and hit artifacts.” Branwell motioned toward the sites highlighted on the satellite map. “All three of these places, for example, are in the middle of fields out in the countryside. There shouldn’t be anybody nearby other than the occasional farmer, so they would be a good place to start. Like Chiara said, we’ll just be careful.”

  That decided, we moved back to discussing logistics and saving GPS coordinates for the three locations. Branwell and I were going to do fieldwork. Literally.

  Decisions made, we broke up our impromptu meeting.

  I firmly believed in what Tennyson had seen. We were going to find Grace. She was okay and out there waiting for us.

  I changed into jean shorts and a cream short-sleeved blouse that, for once, didn’t say anything. I gave myself a mental pep talk as I pulled on hiking boots and grabbed my phone and purse. I had come to a decision to ask Branwell for one thing that I had always wanted. Just for today.

  I met Branwell on the stairs, coming out of his apartment.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets. Face impassive. Eyes wary.

  “Hey you.” I smiled, tentatively. “Is it going to be super uncomfortable hanging out together today?”

  “It’s a definite possibility.” He edged back, even more cautious.

  No sense dancing around the topic. I was a ‘get all the awkward out into the open’ kinda person. Sort of a personal mantra, actually.

  I should put that on a t-shirt. (It would be a little long but I could acronym it: GATAOITO. Mmmm . . . or maybe not. Work in progress.)

  Focus, Lucy.

  I had an agenda. All I needed was Branwell’s cooperation.

  “Let’s talk about this like adults,” I said, hooking a hand through his arm, careful to make sure nothing of mine touched his bare skin. I pulled him down the stairs, talking quietly. “I know you’re loyal to Tennyson, as you should be. I adore you with every last breath in my body. I do. But I also know that nothing can come of that adoration. That it’s completely and utterly one-sided—”

  “Lucy—” Branwell began with a sigh, obviously getting ready to launch into a spectacular speech that he had mentally prepared overnight.

  I did know my man.

  “Let me finish and then you can have your say, Bran.”

  I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and released his arm, turning to hi
m. Hazel eyes tangled with mine. My heart lurched.

  Yeah. I was going to pay big time for this later.

  “Let me have today,” I whispered. Pleading. “Only today and no more, I promise.”

  “Today for what?” His voice rumbled through me.

  “To be myself and not have to guard every word out of my mouth. Obviously Grace is my priority, but I could use just a little bit of fun right now, too. Something to help keep my spirits up.”

  His shoulders sagged, looking utterly defeated. “Luce, of course I want to help, but—”

  “I’m not asking you to join in.” I quickly clarified. “Maybe just save the eye rolls for when my back is turned. Please?”

  I clasped my hands to my chest, bounced on my tiptoes and batted my eyelashes.

  “Pretty, pretty please?” More eyelash batting.

  He looked away from me. Uncomfortable but somehow so boyishly endearing my whole heart flipped.

  “Do you have any idea how cute you are?” The words slipped out of my mouth.

  “What?” His head whipped back to me.

  “You’re cute.” I grinned and took his arm again.

  His brow furrowed. “I’m a giant bear of a broken man who can’t even touch a doughnut without planning and mental preparation,” he snorted. “Hardly anyone’s definition of cute.”

  I bumped him with my shoulder. “Lucky for you, I have a thing for giant bear men with a penchant for doughnut planning. And for today and today only—you’re mine. Agreed?”

  Silence. And then finally, “Agreed. For today.”

  I beamed at him in reply. “Thank you. You won’t regret this.”

  Well . . . hopefully not too much.

  Branwell looked apprehensive as we walked to the car. It would be okay. I would take care of him, just as he had always taken care of me.

  We settled into Dante’s BMW, as the June temps had moved from merely scorchingly hot to hellishly brutal overnight, and Branwell’s VW bus didn’t have air conditioning.

  I curled up in the passenger seat and proceeded with Operation Adore Branwell.

  Gah. He was such a good sport. Seriously.

  First, I connected my phone to the bluetooth and started up his playlist. (Title: Brantastic.)

  “I have a playlist?” He edged us into traffic along the Arno.

  “Yep. Absolutely. It’s a compilation of your favorite songs.”

  A long pause.

  “You know my favorite songs? You sure you don’t have stalker tendencies?”

  “Giant bear men. I have a thing, remember?”

  The trip-hop groove of Portishead and Beth Gibbons’ angsty alto filled the car.

  “Glory Box?” Branwell gave a surprised chuckle, naming the track. “Man, I forgot how much I love this song.”

  Exactly. That was entirely the point of the playlist.

  “Please tell me you have some Caro Emerald on there too?”

  I laughed. “What do you think?”

  His huge spreading grin about did my heart in. Honestly.

  We then debated the pros and cons of European versus American music for a solid ten minutes.

  “I’m just saying that Americans seem to have passed the baton of musical innovation—”

  I stopped, watching as Branwell navigated a particularly hairy stretch of traffic, finally merging onto the autostrada heading south.

  “Thanks.” He shot me a glance.

  I shrugged. “No prob.”

  Silence.

  “You know me so well,” he said.

  Truth there. He didn’t like talking when he hit bad traffic.

  “So where was I?” I asked. “That’s right, American musical sensibilities . . .”

  We talked through music, skimmed over the current political landscape—American and European, because ugh—and were hotly debating which Bourne movie was the best when we pulled up to the first excavation site.

  Glancing down the hill toward a temporary shade tent, I noted a few grad students scraping away in the sweltering heat, working on a wall of stones.

  Branwell and I exchanged a look as he put the car into park. Both of us obviously thinking the same thing—Paola couldn’t know I had been here. My red hair and freckles were a little too memorable.

  “Stay in the car and duck down low,” he said. “If they don’t see you, I don’t think they’ll connect us. Besides, Paola didn’t personally tell me to stay away from Grace’s investigation.”

  I nodded and reclined my seat back. Of course, that didn’t stop me from peeking as Branwell approached the wary grad students. He chatted with them, smiling, but their body language remained cautious. Clearly, we weren’t the first people to come around asking questions.

  Branwell tugged off his glove and gingerly touched a couple of the stones as he walked around.

  After a few minutes, he waved goodbye to the group and walked back up the hill. He shook his head as he climbed into the car.

  “Nothing on the surface,” he said, putting the car in gear, “and it’s not worth the risk to go looking further.”

  “Next site?”

  “Yep.”

  I pulled out some Haribo sour gummy bears as we drove, plopping the bag down on the console between us. Branwell raised an eyebrow at them.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I snipped each bear to change the sound and pulled out all the green ones.” I rattled a separate bag of strictly green gummy bears.

  “Thank you.” Branwell grinned, tossing a pink bear into his mouth.

  He promptly froze and then burst out laughing.

  Oh! That laugh.

  Deep, rumbling, entirely soul melting.

  “Did I mention they’re now sour punny bears?” I asked.

  He shook his head, still grinning. Popped another bear in his mouth, cocking his head to listen to the sounds I knew only he could hear.

  He laughed again.

  “Oh, gosh,” he gasped, leaning forward. “That’s so bad. ‘What was Forrest Gump’s email password?’”

  I knew the answer. Naturally.

  “1forrest1,” I giggled.

  Giving another gruff laugh, Branwell stared at the bag. “Every single one?”

  “Every single one, baby. Hours of sour punishment.”

  Chuckling, Branwell ate another one. Paused, listening. And then laughed again.

  “‘Atheism is a non-prophet organization.’ Honestly, how did you come up with all these?” He was clearly impressed.

  “Google helped.” I shrugged.

  We settled back into our discussion of possible Star Wars sequels.

  The whole time, part of my brain squealed like a fan girl. How many years had I dreamed about doing something like this?

  Prepping food for Branwell, storing notes with each careful alteration. Discussing all our favorite topics without having to dampen my enthusiasm for his answers. Allowing years of careful behavior and emotional wall building to float free.

  After the horror of the situation with Grace, my heart had needed this . . . a little bit of light in the darkness. Of course, Branwell’s good natured willingness to play along just made me love him more.

  We drove to the next site which was thankfully empty of people. But after an hour of wandering with Branwell listening, we found nothing helpful.

  “This hasn’t been too bad, has it?” I waved a hand between us as we walked back to the car, both hot and melting in the humid heat.

  “Hanging out?”

  “Yeah.” I skipped ahead of him. “I’m not being too stalkerish, creepy weird?”

  He opened the passenger door, fixing me with that typical Branwell look—one part indulgence, two parts patience.

  “No.” He motioned me into the car. “I’m enjoying it.”

  I beamed at him, leaning on the open car door. “Oh good. ’Cause I’ve been dying to go over some composites I made.” I gestured toward my purse on the car seat.

  “Composites?”

  “Ye
ah, of our kids. I merged our faces together in Photoshop, so we know what they’d look like. And then, I figured we could stick with this whole Victorian artist naming thing you guys have going—what with Tennyson, Branwell, Dante. Our son could be Whitman and our daughter, Bronte or maybe Emerson. But I was wondering how you felt about Dickens as a name too? I mean, it seems problematic, not the least because it rhymes with ‘chickens’—”

  “Lucy—”

  “Have I told you what a great Ricky Riccardo impression you do? Though you need to add more of a Latin accent when you say it—Loosee!”

  “Oh my word, Luce, I-I—”

  “I’m kidding, Branwell.” I patted his arm, giggling. “Totally kidding about the kids.”

  Well, at least about the face Photoshopping thing. Dickens, on the other hand, had actually been a legitimate question, but whatever—

  Poor guy. His shoulders sagged in relief.

  I tried not to be offended.

  “Ha-ha, very funny.” He shook his head. A little tired and defeated. Again, channeling Desi Arnaz.

  He gestured with his chin.

  I climbed into the car, my eyes shooting cartoon hearts at Branwell’s shoulders as he rounded the hood.

  How I loved this man.

  We were five hours into our impromptu tour of obscure Etruscan archaeological sites when we reached the last one.

  We pulled past the site and parked in a small area of packed dirt down the road, far enough away to not call attention to our intentions. Getting out of the car, I lifted a hand to shade my eyes, surveying the scenery. Classic Tuscany with rolling hills, cypress trees growing in stately lines, vineyards and olive orchards melting into the distance. All wrapped in steamy, smoke-like humidity that had my shirt instantly sticking to my stomach.

  Walking back down the road, the site itself boasted a series of overgrown, low stone walls, all situated in the middle of a loosely gated, uncultivated field surrounded by forest. The ruins encroached on the trees, fighting a silent battle with each other that the forest would eventually win.

  Not another person in sight.

  We slid through the gate and traipsed across the wild grasses and occasional wildflower until reaching the beginning of the stone walls. The summer heat scorched my lungs with each breath—the air so muggy and heavy you could practically chew it. I deeply regretted wearing hiking shoes instead of sandals.