A Winter in New York(91)

“Stop. Gio, please, I don’t need you to fight this battle for me.”

He looks sideways at me, breathing hard, and I see all of the Italian passion and fury burning bright behind his beautiful dark eyes. I hold his gaze steady, willing him to listen to me, and after a beat he does as I’ve asked, letting Adam go with a small shove. I nod, grateful that even in this moment of true anger, Gio is a man who is prepared to listen to the needs of others. I think he understands how important it is for me to finish this on my terms.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” I draw myself up to my full height as I turn to look Adam square in the face. “New York is my home now. I’m never coming back to London, nor to you. I’m not scared of you anymore, I’m done letting you be the monster under my bed. You’re a nobody, a miserable, pathetic excuse for a man who gets his kicks from manipulating people when they’re at their lowest. Well, newsflash, Adam. I’m not at my lowest anymore, and I’m not your mouse. I’m not your anything, in fact, and I never will be, so get the hell out of this city and never set so much as a foot near it again, do you hear me?”

Adam smirks down at me, his lip swollen and ugly. “Big talk,” he says. “You’ll come crawling back.”

“I promise you I won’t. These people have taken me into their lives and into their family—” I begin.

His sharp bark of laughter cuts across me. “Family? You’re nobody’s family, mouse.” He pouts his split bottom lip at me in fake sympathy, and I note his flinch of pain with satisfaction.

Behind me, Gio makes a sound somewhere close to a growl and takes a step toward us, but Santo raises his hand and moves in front of his son. A temporary stillness falls over proceedings at the older man’s intervention; even Adam seems to defer to his authority.

“Iris is my family,” Santo says, leaning heavily on his cane.

Maria steps up beside her husband. “And mine.”

Sophia takes her place in the line. “And mine.”

Felipe moves beside his brother. “And mine.”

On the front step of the noodle house, Robin and Bobby stand side by side. “And you better fucking believe she’s our family too,” Robin half shouts, looking mutinous.

Adam glares at them all. “Bunch of fucking losers,” he mutters, blood dripping from his lip, stark against the snow.

I gaze around at each and every one of them, proud and overwrought. “Bunch of fucking heroes,” I say.

And then I walk right up close to my ex, liberated, all fear gone. I smell his stomach-churning cologne for the last time as I think about the living hell he put me through, and I quietly acknowledge the strength it took to leave him when I was at my lowest ebb. I think about the girl I met in the alley a few weeks ago, and on behalf of every woman living in fear of a controlling man, I raise my chin and stare that bastard down one last time. I deserve to have the final word.

“Eat glass, Adam Bronson.”





39.


WE ALL STAND IN THE street, my New York family and I, until Adam finally disappears from view, and then they close in around me. I don’t really understand what just happened, why they’re even here, but all I know in that moment is that they are here and it’s overwhelming in the best way. Gio stands back and waits for his family to finish passing me around for hugs, and then finally he’s holding me in his arms and I start to cry. He pulls me closer still, really tight, the kind of hug designed to make someone feel held and safe.

“I’ve got you,” he says, stroking my hair. “I’ve got you.”

I look up at him, and he gazes down at me, and then he lowers his face and kisses me slowly. I hear Sophia’s sigh, and Maria is crying, and Bobby and Robin usher everyone around us up to their apartment for a stiff drink.

We stay exactly where we are until there is just us and Smirnoff left on the sidewalk. Gio smooths my hair back with both hands and looks at me, serious-eyed.

“You okay?” he whispers, holding my face.

“I am now,” I say, and I mean it. “You?”

“Not even close,” he says, stepping back. “This whole thing, Iris, it’s…”

He reaches into his coat and pulls something from his inside pocket. I look down and see the familiar mint-green torn napkin from my mother’s scrapbook. Santo’s writing. Their beloved family recipe.

“Papa told us everything,” he says. “And Felipe filled in the gaps.”

I stare at the napkin. “I’ve wanted to tell you every single day,” I say.

He looks at me. “All those mornings together at the gelateria, and you knew the recipe all along.”

“It wasn’t my secret to share,” I whisper. “I just wanted to help, not cause any discord in your family.”

“You should have trusted me sooner,” he says.

“It was never about trust,” I say. “It was about loyalty to my mother, at first, at least. And then to Santo too, because the more you told me about him the more I understood how big a deal what’s written on this napkin was. And the lie I told you about Adam…it made my skin crawl with shame. I just dug myself a hole I had no idea how to get out of. I’m so sorry.”

Gio stares at the napkin. “Mamma has told me to give this back to you.”