Her clothes still hang in the closet. I haven’t been able to pack them away. My fingers brush over the soft satin of that black dress she tried on for me. I grasp the fabric and bring it to my nose. There’s a faint hint of her familiar scent.
My fist tightens, and I bury my face in the dress and breathe her in.
In. Out.
In. Out.
I do it for so long that I lose it. My senses get accustomed to it and it disappears.
Pressure builds behind my eyes. That’s been happening more often in the past week.
The longer Cleo’s gone, the less I recognize the Rafaele that told her to leave. I was so angry. So fucking out of control. And now without her here, I’m lost, wandering like a ghost through a house filled with memories.
There’s a shallow drawer in the closet where she kept her jewelry. I pull it open and find most of it still there. She didn’t take the necklace I got for her birthday with her. Why would she? Why would she want a reminder of me when she can start with a blank slate?
A folded piece of paper is wedged between the velvet insert and the edge of the drawer. I pull it out and unfold it.
“Cleo’s plan for ruining Rafaele’s life.”
There are devil horns above my name. I read the bullet points beneath and huff out an amused breath. At first, it’s no more than a chuckle, and then it builds and builds until I’m laughing like a fucking lunatic. She’s always managed to make me laugh.
It feels good, and it hurts. God, how it hurts.
Eventually, I quiet down. I brush my thumb over her writing and the little doodles she drew on the page. She didn’t go through with her plan. She gave up on the first bullet point.
“You did it anyway, tesoro,” I mutter and take a swig from my glass.
I leave the bedroom and head back downstairs, tapping my glass against the wooden banister as I go down the steps.
Clank, clank, clank.
It’s so fucking quiet in here. Has it always been this quiet in this house?
The doorbell rings.
Cleo.
That’s an insane idea. She’s too proud for that. She’ll never come back here, not after how I treated her. That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it?
There’s another knock, louder this time. Why isn’t anyone opening the door? Then I remember I dismissed all the staff. I couldn’t bear the questioning looks they kept giving me as I roamed the halls. Luca was the only one brave enough to utter her name. He asked if I knew how she was. I roared at him to get out. Roared at all of them to leave for three weeks. As if that will be long enough for me to forget her and glue myself back together.
What a fucking joke.
I turn the lock and open the front door. My sisters stand in front of a black car.
I frown. “What are you doing here?”
“Let us in,” Elena demands, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder with an angry flick of her hand. “You’ve kept us waiting out here long enough.”
I step aside, letting her and Fabi pass.
The second I close the door, Elena whirls around and gives me a scathing look. “You look like shit.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. She’s right. I look like I haven’t slept in weeks. Truth is, I don’t think I’ve gotten more than three hours a night since Nero and Cleo left.
“I’ve had trouble sleeping.”
“Yeah, I wonder why,” she says, her tone accusing.
Fabi touches my arm. Her gaze drops to the glass in my hand. Worry flashes across her features, and for a second, I think she’s going to embrace me.
Thankfully, she holds herself back. We never hug. It’s not the kind of affection I’ve ever welcomed.
“We want to talk,” Fabi says. “Let’s sit down.”
The alcohol is making my brain sluggish. I’m still trying to process the fact that they’re here. “When did you get in?”
“We came straight from the airport.” She tugs on my sleeve. “Come.”
I follow her, feeling like a stranger in my own home. Elena walks behind us. We spread out in the living room. I sink into the sofa and finish off half of my whiskey in one gulp. Fabi and Elena sit down across from me. An expectant air fills the room, the kind that precedes a difficult conversation.
My sisters and I don’t have those kinds of conversations though. In fact, we barely talk. They don’t like me very much. And I don’t know them very well. We’re family, but we aren’t friends. I’d die for them, but I’d never go to them for help.
I place my glass on the side table. “You said you want to talk. So talk.”