The Sicilian Marriage. Sandra Marton

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      “We have to talk.”

      “We have nothing to talk about. And if, by some miracle we did, have you ever heard of that new invention called the telephone?”

      “Damn it, this isn’t a game. Let me in.”

      “You’re right. It isn’t a game.” Bree started to close the door. “Go on home, Firelli. Give us both a break and just—”

      “Briana.” Gianni moved forward and wedged his shoulder in the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. “Please.”

      The word, as much as that shoulder, stopped her cold. Please? She wouldn’t have thought the term was in his vocabulary. At least, not when it came to women. She started to tell him what he could do with his plea but something in his eyes made her reconsider.

      “Something’s wrong,” she said slowly.

      He didn’t answer. “Open the door, Bree.”

      “What is it?” A coldness began stealing over her. “Gianni? What’s the matter?”

      “I’ve come to tell you something,” he said quietly, “but not like this. Let me in.”

      Her heart gave an unsteady thump. “Tell me what’s going on.”

      Gianni ran his hand through his hair. It was already standing up in little curls, as if he’d repeated the same action several times. Now she noticed he was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and running shoes, and there was a shadowy bristle on his jaw.

      Gianni Firelli, unshaven and casually dressed at this hour on a weekday morning?

      “Stefano,” she whispered. “And my sister…”

      Her knees buckled. Gianni cursed and caught her by the shoulders.

      “No,” he said sharply. “Listen to me, Bree. Your sister and brother-in-law are fine. Your family is fine. This has nothing to do with them.”

      “Then what…It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

      She was staring at him, her eyes enormous in her suddenly pale face, and the anger he’d been riding since the last time he saw her drained away. He had bad news for her. Terrible news, the worst imaginable.

      He had to tell her that her best friend was dead.

      Gianni drew a long breath. “Bree—”

      “Briana? Is it the Martians?”

      He looked over his shoulder. An old woman was standing in the doorway opposite, hands clutched to her breasts.

      “Have the aliens demanded our surrender?”

      Any other time, he would have laughed. The woman was staring at him as if he were the devil himself, which pretty much described how he felt at the moment.

      “I’m a friend of Briana’s,” he said gently. “Everything’s fine.”

      The old woman looked uncertain. “Are you sure?”

      “The president says we’ll never surrender,” he said firmly, and forced a smile to his lips.

      That seemed to do it. She stepped back inside her apartment; Gianni moved forward, still holding Briana by the shoulders, and kicked the door shut.

      Heat and humidity curled around him like the breath of a swamp. The room reminded him of a closet. He felt too big for it and for the emotions churning in his belly.

      “Tell me,” Bree said.

      “Sit down first.”

      He knew the second she figured it out. What little color had returned to her face drained away.

      “It’s Karen,” she whispered.

      Gianni swung her into his arms. Two steps, and he was beside a tattered sofa. Carefully he lowered her to it. She scooted into the corner, watching him as if he held the secrets of the universe.

      “Please. Tell me what happened. It is Karen, isn’t it?”

      A muscle tightened in Gianni’s cheek. “Yes.”

      Tears flooded her eyes. “Oh God,” she said brokenly. “Oh God!”

      “And Tomasso,” he said, rushing the words, knowing she had to hear it all and hear it quickly before the sledgehammer blow of pain struck him again.

      “Both of them?”

      “Yes.”

      Her head fell back, as if she’d been hit. Gianni moved closer and clasped her hands.

      “I’m sorry, Briana.”

      “It can’t be.” She made a choked sound that was almost a laugh and was, he knew, the first sign of hysteria. “It isn’t possible.”

      “I’m afraid it is.”

      “But how? How could—”

      “They were in Sicily, visiting Tomasso’s grandmother. They were driving. The roads there are narrow. Twisting. Another car—the driver was drunk. He—he—” Gianni couldn’t get the words out. His throat felt as if someone were gripping it, trying to choke the air from his lungs. “It was quick,” he finally said. “They didn’t suffer.”

      Bree’s eyes had become dull. Suddenly they flashed to life. “The baby?”

      He nodded. At least there was some good news. “The baby is fine.”

      Briana began to weep, silently at first, then in great, gasping sobs that tore at his heart.

      “Cara,” he said thickly, and drew her into his arms.

      She cried uncontrollably. He felt his eyes grow damp. He wanted to weep with her but he hadn’t cried since he was five and he’d realized that if he did, his father would only beat him harder.

      Instead he buried his face in her hair as he tried to figure out how to tell her the next part. Surely it would seem as impossible to her as it had to him when Tomasso’s attorney phoned early this morning, first with the brutal news of Tommy’s and Karen’s deaths, and then with the details of their will.

      “Are you sure?” he’d kept asking the man, which was incredibly stupid because he was a lawyer, too; he knew the Massini attorney couldn’t have misunderstood. But the other man was patient. He read the pertinent clauses aloud. Even after that, Gianni kept saying, yes, but are you sure? because what he was hearing couldn’t be right.

      “Give me your fax number,” the exasperated attorney finally said. Minutes later, Gianni had been staring at a document that would change his life.

      His, and Briana’s.

      “When?” Bree said.

      Her СКАЧАТЬ