Chapter 9 - The Open Gate
At four o'clock, Emilio’s black sedan pulled through the iron gates and parked smoothly by the front fountain.
Emilio stepped out, wearing a lightweight charcoal blazer over an open-collared shirt, looking more like an ordinary professor or businessman than a syndicate boss. He didn't wait for Carmela to open the door; he strode straight through the terrace doors into the east garden, where Delia and Sabina were waiting by the stone bench.
Sabina bolted across the lawn like a released spring, shouting, “Papa! Papa, we’re going for gelato!” and launching herself into his arms.
Emilio caught her easily, swinging her up into the air with a deep, rumbling laugh that sounded like it had been locked away in a vault for twenty years. He buried his face in her dark hair, his broad shoulders shaking with quiet, absolute joy.
Delia stood by the weeping willow, her hands tucked into the pockets of her cardigan, watching them with a warm, heavy ache in her chest.
Emilio set Sabina down on her feet, whispered something to her that made the child giggle and run off toward the kitchen to find Carmela, and then turned his gaze toward Delia.
He walked across the grass, his strides long and measured, until he stood right in front of her under the budding branches of the willow tree.
“You look like you’re planning to run away again,” Emilio said, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I was just thinking,” Delia said, looking past him toward the open iron gates on Atwells Avenue, where cars were driving by in the spring sunshine without slowing down. “You left the gates open.”
Emilio followed her gaze, then looked back down into her eyes.
“They’ve been open for three months,” Emilio said quietly. “Nobody comes looking for trouble here anymore, Delia. They know the house is occupied.”
Delia looked up at him, her heart doing a familiar, comforting flutter against her ribs. The bruise on her cheek had long since faded, leaving behind only clear skin and the quiet, unshakeable confidence of a woman who had survived the fire and built a home in the ashes.
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“Good,” Delia whispered, stepping closer until her hand brushed against his fingers. “Because I don't think I’d fit in that cardboard box anymore anyway.”
Emilio reached out, his warm, strong hand closing firmly over hers, interlocking their fingers the way they had done in the dark months of winter, anchoring each other against the shifting tides of the world outside.
