Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  I kissed him again, delaying, stalling. Branwell readily accepted my tactics.

  It was supposed to make things better.

  It didn’t.

  Tasting him, being held tight in his arms . . . feeling precious and understood and cared for . . .

  I could already sense myself falling and falling toward the cold hard ground of reality. My heart would shatter.

  “C-can you let me go? Watch me walk away without trying to work things out with Tennyson?” I finally gasped.

  He shook his head, burying his nose in my hair. “No.” Muffled. “I can’t. I keep telling myself that I can, but really, I’m not that strong or noble.” Branwell clutched me against his chest, arms engulfing me. I rested my head, listening to the steady thump-thump of his heart.

  “You’ll talk to him? To Tennyson?”

  A pause.

  “I have to try.” Branwell brushed a kiss on the top of my head. “Maybe if I bring you up, it will be okay.”

  Neither one of us quite believed it. But hope was a terribly insidious thing.

  “He loves you, Branwell. And once, he loved me. He would want our happiness.”

  “True. Though knowing something and feeling it enough to act rationally are two very different things. But for us . . .”

  A long pause.

  “For us, I have to try.”

  Forty One

  Tuscany, Italy

  2016

  Branwell

  I dropped Lucy a block away from her brother’s palazzo in Prato. Down the street, the media were already assembling in front of the building, everyone wanting to hear from little Grace’s parents.

  Lucy leaned across the car console and kissed me, lingering. A promise of sorts.

  “I love you,” she whispered against my lips. “No matter what happens, remember that. You’ll always have my heart.”

  This woman . . .

  “I love you, too.” I gave her one more soft kiss before pulling back.

  Lucy reached into her purse and set the bag of green sour gummy bears on the dashboard.

  “Saved these for you,” she said with a wink. And then she was out of the car, down the block and pushing her way through cameramen and reporters to the apartment entryway. She paused on the stoop to lift a hand goodbye.

  I watched until she disappeared inside, my throat tight.

  The green gummy bears taunted me on the dashboard, garishly lime in the sunlight.

  My sweet Lucy.

  Hesitating for only a second, I reached for the bag and opened it. Like their punny siblings, these bears also had small nicks in them.

  Puzzled, I popped one in my mouth.

  Lucy giggling.

  “I love you beary much.”

  I grinned, chewing.

  They weren’t that bad, actually.

  I reached for another one.

  “I can bearly stand how handsome you are.”

  She hadn’t, had she?

  Another.

  “Roawr!”

  The. Whole. Bag.

  Had she intended I would eat these? Or was this something she had done for her own amusement?

  Didn’t matter because green gummy bears had just become my new favorite food.

  Driving out of Prato, I turned the car south, heading to Volterra. The scenery quickly morphed from apartment buildings to rolling countryside carpeted with olive trees and grape vines. Ancient towns perched on the top of each hill, clumps of trees clinging to the crannies below, looking like so many tonsured monks.

  I didn’t tell Tennyson I was coming. No sense in giving him advanced warning. The last thing I wanted him to do was gaze into the future of our conversation.

  That wouldn’t end well.

  Instead, I mentally imagined the walls tightening around my mind, keeping Tennyson from seeing or feeling anything from me.

  I was approaching Judgment Day. I spent the drive going over what I was going to say, outlining what would be the best approach to the topic. I couldn’t come up with a clear path. Honestly, everything depended on Tennyson’s mood and emotional state.

  I pulled into the gravel parking area to the side of the villa, quietly killing the engine. The afternoon air was marginally less hot today and humidity hung in misty sheets around the hills. Birds chirped and cicadas buzzed. A tentative breeze ruffled the wisteria vines clambering up the old castle walls.

  I walked through the small door in the large gates and stared across the courtyard at the entrance to the house proper. Was I really ready to have this conversation? My entire future perched on a knife’s edge.

  My feet turned right and took me to the chapel door before I even consciously thought it through. The small stone church hugged the castle wall on two sides, the Gothic entryway too large for the building’s size.

  Yes, a few moments in the chapel would be good. Center my thinking.

  I pushed open the heavy wood door. The smell of mildew and musty things flowed around me, the air cool in the small space. I stepped into the dark interior, sunlight filtering through small, high windows to either side of the altar. Fumbling, I found the light switch.

  Light flooded the room, illuminating ancient frescoes overhead. Christ judging in his glory. The Virgin Mary blessing the saints. Three wooden pews stood on each side of a center aisle. An ancient stone altar rested at the head of the short nave.

  Small, confined, homey.

  I walked the few steps to the altar and then sat on the front pew, the ancient wood creaking under my weight.

  A thousand childhood memories washed in.

  Tennyson laughing as we played tag, saying he had seen that we wouldn’t be able to catch him.

  Tennyson crying because Chiara was going to fall and break her arm and he was worried.

  Tennyson finding me after our father had taken his life, wrapping me in his arms, knowing I needed comfort.

  The world had not been an easy place for my brother. How could I contribute to his pain?

  I was such a selfish jerk.

  Rubbing gloved hands over my face, I mentally reviewed what I would say. Looking for a path forward that enabled me to keep Lucy without destroying my brother.

  After several minutes, I lifted my head, noting the names etched into stones surrounding the altar, lining the walls and floor.

  Ancestors. Generations of them.

  Haunted men, like myself, and the women who had loved them.

  Chiara said Sofia was buried here, too.

  It took five minutes of hunting to find her tombstone, nestled knee-high in the left wall.

  Sofia Elisabeta Chiara D’Angelo Perlucci

  1794-1826

  She had been just thirty-two when she died. Barely older than me.

  I pulled off my glove and gingerly touched the stone, pressing my fingers into her name, the rock cold and rough under my fingertips.

  Sounds, voices, smells . . . all came washing in.

  I concentrated on them and pushed backward, not sure what I was looking for. It’s not like I would find Jack here.

  “Do you know the story?” A gravelly voice in Italian. A chisel striking stone, background noise—the sounds of a mason yard. “Lady Sofia and her English beau?”

  “Aye, though I was too young at the time it happened to understand. My mum says it was a great scandal.”

  “That it was, boy. But all’s well that ends well, I say. Pity about the English gentleman though. He took it all poorly. Nearly destroyed the church pew in the family chapel, so I’m told. Then went home and killed himself. Servant said he was there one minute and then gone the next . . .”

  I pulled my hand away as the voices faded.

  Huh. That had been . . . compelling.

  Had they truly been referring to something that happened in this chapel?

  I stood and surveyed the room, studying the age-darkened wooden benches. They were certainly more than old enough to date from Sofia’s time.

  After a few minutes of examination
, I realized that the rear left pew had a significant repair on one side. I had never noticed it before, but then I had never been looking for it either.

  Crouching down, I studied the fragmented wood. The right legs had been replaced.

  Reaching out a hand, I carefully touched the worn wood. Again, noise flooded my senses.

  Men talking. Hammers and saws working.

  I sifted back in time, listening for . . . what?

  Sofia? Jack?

  Something familiar.

  It took several minutes, but then . . .

  “Leave me be, Sofia.” Jack’s voice. Anguished. “You have done enough harm.”

  “Jack, please. I was honest with you in this.” Sofia. Pleading.

  I pushed on my GUT, asking to see more. Images drifted in.

  A man seated on the floor by the altar, flowers strewn over its surface. A celebration interrupted. A top hat and walking stick lay at his side. One hand threaded through his hair, the other resting on his upturned knees.

  A woman paced before him. Long skirts swishing, bonnet hiding her face.

  A snort of masculine laughter. Bitter. Caustic. Jack’s. “Indeed, my lady. You were. Up until the point he stole you from me moments before we made sacred vows to each other—”

  “Stole me?” Sofia stopped her pacing. Stared down at Jack. “Like I am a piece of chattel to be passed around at whim from man to man?”

  “You know that is not what I meant,” he sighed.

  “I thank whatever saints may be that he interrupted our marriage ceremony. Antonio has always had my heart. I have loved him from the first time—”

  “Please.” Jack held up a hand. “I do not wish to hear of your devotion to another.”

  Sofia folded her arms. “I am sorry for how things . . . happened. How was I to know Antonio still lived? Napoleon’s army was deadly, and Antonio had been reported missing nearly two years ago. As I told you, I had encouraged him to fight against the Corsican fiend and when he was lost, I was too—”

  “Bah!” Pain. Frustration. “Enough, Sofia. It is done. All that remains is for you to take yourself off with him and for me to mourn what might have been.”

  Silence.

  “I am sorry, Jack. You are a good man. I regret that my heart was never whole enough to be won.”

  “Sofia, my love.” An unknown man’s voice. “The carriage awaits.”

  “Your lover arrives.” Jack laughed again. Mocking. “Do not keep him waiting, my dear.”

  Sofia turned and walked down the small aisle toward a man standing in the doorway.

  “Vai con Dio,” she whispered back to Jack. Go with God.

  Turning, she took Antonio’s hand, stepping into the light.

  Jack slumped on the floor, shoulders shaking. Laughing? Crying? Both?

  Suddenly, he erupted in a rage.

  Leaping to his feet, he snatched up his walking stick and attacked the wooden bench before him . . .

  The scene faded.

  Well . . . damn.

  That had been unexpected.

  I stood up, Jack’s anguish and despair slowly ebbing.

  Suddenly, everything slotted into place. Jack arrived in Tuscany, intent on continuing his father’s excavations. In the process, he met Sofia D’Angelo, fell in love and asked her to marry him. Sofia agreed because the love of her life, Antonio Perlucci, a soldier in the fight against Napoleon was presumed dead and she was heartbroken. The man, Antonio, returned and Sofia left Jack at the altar.

  From that point . . . what happened? Jack disappeared, but how? I studied the ancient chapel, as if it could give me answers.

  When I had first encountered Jack in Lucy’s living room . . . I had felt profound loss. Had the scene in the palazzo happened after the scene here in the chapel? It would make sense.

  And then what? Jack committed suicide in his grief, as the stone masons and so many others asserted?

  Or was it what Roberto believed? That the presence of the D’Angelos had somehow primed Chucky to appear. Chucky, drawn to Jack’s love and grief over Sofia, had snatched Jack?

  Was that what was happening with me, too? Chucky coming after me more aggressively now because he could sense my anguish over Lucy? Or was it Lucy’s concern for Grace that was drawing Chucky out through me?

  Still so many questions. What was I to do with all this information? Too many loose threads and no clear answer.

  I swallowed, pulling my glove back on, shaking my head.

  Jack’s despair lingered, tugging at my senses.

  Razored pain. Self-loathing. A desire for nothingness.

  Poor Jack.

  The potent emotional cocktail hit me again, a blasting wave.

  What—?!

  Everything within me stilled. And then I took off at a run.

  Madonna mia! No!

  I wasn’t feeling Jack at all.

  This black despair . . . a yearning for oblivion . . .

  It was all Tennyson.

  Forty Two

  Branwell

  I flew out of the chapel, across the courtyard and through the old front door of the villa. Not pausing to wonder why I was suddenly feeling things like this from Tennyson. Was it the tandem nature of our GUTs that made us so in tune with each other? Who knew.

  I raced up the wide, stone stairs and into the reception rooms on the piano nobile.

  Dimly, I processed a note atop the large family dining table in the drawing room. I didn’t stop to read it all. Tennyson’s neat handwriting and words saying he was tired of fighting were evidence enough of his intentions.

  Terror pounded through me as I raced up another set of stairs to Tennyson’s room.

  Empty.

  Bathroom. Empty.

  I could still feel his despair. The wracking pain. Hopelessness.

  He had to be alive.

  Please don’t let me be too late. Not now. Not like this.

  I raced up another flight of stairs, down a long hallway and then through a door, whirling up the spiral staircase in the tower, feet pounding, breathing hard.

  The staircase ended in a ladder to a trap door—the final ascent to the top.

  The trap door was open.

  Elvis sat at the bottom of the ladder, whining as I rounded the corner, tail wagging.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I whispered, giving his head a quick scratch. “I’m here now.”

  I met his concerned, hang-dog eyes as he continued to whimper. He nudged my pant leg as I pulled myself up the ladder.

  I carefully climbed up, head popping out of the floor of the square arched loggia that was the top of the tower.

  Tennyson stood dead center in the arch directly in front of me. Standing on one foot, his prosthetic leg resting on the stone floor beneath him.

  Just inches between him and a solid hundred foot fall to the pavement below.

  “I didn’t feel you. Not even the tiniest bit.” Tennyson chuckled. Humorless. Harsh. “I had to rely on old-fashioned sound to know you were here.”

  Fractured agony washed over me with each word. A serrated, vicious pain.

  I grunted, climbing the rest of the way out of the trap door, standing up.

  “You wanna come down out of there and talk to me.” I edged my way forward, swallowing hard, hands shaking. Refusing to think about how high up we were.

  Could I grab him if he jumped?

  “The most ironic part?” Tennyson continued, ignoring my words. Tone casual, as if he weren’t teetering on the edge of certain death. “I want to sense your emotions. You, of everyone else out there, I want to feel.”

  Tennyson suddenly flinched, swaying outward.

  “Tenn!” Terrified, I lunged forward, latching a hand around his upper arm. I focused on him, stubbornly refusing to look down.

  He looked at me, eyes so haunted.

  “Fine,” I said.

  And I let it go. Blew apart the mental walls that I knew kept Tennyson out of my head. I pushed my feelings for Lucy down deep and
pulled out the only emotion that mattered.

  Love.

  Every last ounce of love and respect and adoration I had for my brother.

  My fierce loyalty to him. That I would sacrifice anything and everything for his chance at happiness.

  Case in point.

  Tennyson closed his eyes, breathing in and out.

  No reaction.

  Wait—his earlier flinch had been a reaction to my future emotions.

  Got it.

  I kept pumping adoration and love through my mind.

  “Stay with me, Tenn.” I tightened my grip on his arm.

  He bowed his head, looking down at my hand. And then raised his eyes to mine.

  I refused to recoil at what I saw there. Such bitter despair. Pain. Suffering.

  “I got you, bro,” I whispered. “I’ll always have your back.”

  Tennyson continued to stare at me, as if probing things I couldn’t see.

  “It’s hard,” he confessed. “It’s not just the voices and the visions. That’s only part of it.”

  He swallowed and his gaze went unfocused. “It’s like I’m being torn apart from the inside out . . . like some vital component is missing or broken, and I don’t know how to Humpty-Dumpty myself back together again.”

  He snorted, a black, desolate sound.

  “The worst part? This”—he ran a hand up and down his body—“will never get better. There is no cure for me, Bran. No fix.”

  Was that true?

  “You don’t know that. There’s a lot we don’t understand about our GUTs, Tenn. There’s always hope.”

  “Hope?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I stopped believing in that a long time ago. Us D’Angelos haven’t ever had the luxury of hope.” He said it like a four-letter word, biting sharp.

  “Not true.” I called his bluff. “Me. You. Dante. We’re different. Our situation is different. There’s too much fight in you to let this win.”

  He winced and looked back over the sprawling countryside.

  Silence.

  “You love me,” he said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Absolutely.” No hesitation. “More than my own life.”

  A beat.

  “I love you, too,” Tennyson whispered.

  “Thank you.”

  “I want you to be happy. I really do.” Words threaded with guilt.