I wash my hands in the sink and glare at my reflection. I’m a mess. My eyes are bloodshot, my nose is puffy, and my face is red. I can’t cover the redness because I left my concealer and powder in my purse downstairs and as much as I’d like to, I can’t hide out here forever.

I open the bathroom door.

Marc startles me. He glowers. “What did Elio say to you?”

“Nothing.”

He huddles close, pushing me farther into the bathroom. “You’re lying.”

“No.” I shake my head. He grabs my wrist in a vise grip and tugs me toward him so hard that the air whooshes from my lungs when I hit the wall of his muscular chest. “You’re hurting me.”

It’s more than that though. For the first time since we met, he is actually scaring me. Marc makes a show of glancing at my wrist, which he still grips far too tightly. “With this?”

“Yes.” I try to pull free, but he tightens his hold. I squirm harder, and he grins and pulls me closer, laying a kiss on my lips. I can’t get away. I can’t breathe.

I do the only thing I can with my body pressed between his and the bathroom vanity.

I bite him.

“Jesus, Romy. What the fuck?” he hisses and backs away, and that’s all the time I need to run. I thank God for those long sessions on the treadmill when he pushed me to dig deeper, go faster, longer, because it helps me now as I race down the stairs two at a time. Marc’s heavy footfalls follow close behind. With tears flowing freely down my face, I hit the last stair and turn the corner. I collide with Elio.

He cups my face and forces me to look at him. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Marc. He . . .” With the adrenaline and fear coursing through my body, I’m panting hard, and feel the crushing weight of a panic attack eating all the air from the hall around me.

Elio doesn’t have time to respond because Marc is behind me. I can feel him there, like an angry bear coming to claim back what’s his.

Elio gently pulls me closer, shielding me from his brother. “It’s okay. I got you.”

“Let go of my girlfriend.”

“Back off, brother.” Elio’s voice rumbles through his chest. I feel the reverberations through my own ribcage.

“Romy, get over here, now.”

I open my mouth, but Elio’s low growl stops me. “She’s not going anywhere near you.”

He pushes me behind him, blocking me from Marc’s line of sight.

“And you’re, what? Going to stop me? Last time you hit me it didn’t even leave a mark,” Marc scoffs.

“Yeah well, there’s a lot of bad blood under that bridge since. I’ve been begging for another go.”

“It must just eat you up inside, huh? That I stole your wife, and now I’ve got Romy too.”

“The only thing you’ve got, little brother, is the wrong idea about what it means to be a man and how to treat women.”

“Oh please. I made that ass. Before me, she was nothing. She was fat and pathetic, a miserable excuse for a woman, and Marc Moretti made her into a fucking champion. And you should hear the way she whimpers when she comes ‘Oh, yes Marc, just like that.’ She couldn’t wait to tear my clothes off—”

Elio lunges, grabbing his brother by the shirt collar and pounding his fist into his cheek. Marc’s head snaps to the side with the brutality of the blow, and he goes down. Out like a light.

Elio stares at his brother, his shoulders tense as they rise and fall with his angry breaths. I reach out and grab his arm and he turns to face me, the blackness of rage still evident in his gaze. His hand is bleeding and already showing signs of swelling. He pulls out of my grasp and cups my cheek, tilting my face up to him. “You okay?”

I don’t have words, so I simply nod as tears well in my eyes and spill down my face.

From behind us comes a shriek in Italian, and I don’t know if it came from Nonna, B, or Elio’s mother, but the hall is suddenly full of bodies, and Coco screams. Elio releases me and hurries over to his daughter, scooping her up and walking away. I have no idea what to do, so I attempt to melt into the wall as the family erupts into harsh, biting words in Italian. What I assume are insults fly all around the room. I have no idea if any of the vitriol is directed at me.

A beat later, someone tugs on my hand. I glance up and Elio is looking at me, his daughter wrapped around him and crying on his shoulder. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

“Just what is going on here, Elio?” his mother demands.

“Maybe you need to ask your son that.”

She places her hands on her hips, her face a combination of fury and disappointment. “Well I would, but he’s out cold. And don’t you take that tone with me, young man. You can’t just come in here, steal your brother’s girlfriend and—”

“He fucked my wife, Ma,” Elio shouts, and everyone falls silent. My gaze darts to each member of Elio’s family, and then back to the man in question. Guilt roils through my stomach. “He slept with my pregnant wife, in my bed, in my house, and tonight he shows up here with the only woman I’ve cared about in a really long time and treated her like property. So, I’m taking Romy and Coco home, and I don’t wanna hear another goddamn word about my fratello. He is no brother to me.”

Oh God. Poor Elio.

The family all remain silent, except for Coco’s whimpers. Elio tightens his hold on her, and pure anguish crosses his face before he takes my hand and leads me toward the front door.

Once outside, the cool mountain air washes over me and my nerves calm a little. Elio opens my door for me and I scramble inside the SUV. I can’t meet his gaze, so I stare straight ahead at the mountains as he sets Coco in her car seat and whispers assurances in her ear. He doesn’t say anything as he climbs in and slams the door, and then he throws the stick in reverse and zooms down the driveway, turning so abruptly that our tires screech on the loose gravel. I lean over and turn on the heat, almost afraid to move, but it’s freezing in here. Without it, Coco will likely be a human Popsicle by the time we make it back to Colorado Springs. She’s so tiny.

Several minutes into the drive, she pipes up from the back seat. “Daddy, why did you hit Uncie Marc? I thought we weren’t pupwosed to do hitting.”

I dare a glance at Elio. He closes his eyes for a beat and then sighs as he opens them. “Daddy shouldn’t have done that, baby. And I shouldn’t have said those bad words, either. But Marc hurt someone I care about. Someone I care about an awful lot.”

His gaze meets mine for a beat before he looks back at the road. My heart pounds a staccato stop-start rhythm. I keep seeing him knock his brother out cold. Guilt surges through me. Marc stole his wife.

“Who did he hurt?”

“He hurt Romy, button.”

Butterflies explode in my belly. It’s stupid really, but I’m reduced to a twelve-year-old girl with his admission. Elio cares about me.

“Why?”

Elio’s hands tighten on the wheel. A muscle in his jaw pops as he grinds his teeth.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, but those deep brown eyes meet mine again, and I quickly shut up.

“It matters. Uncle Marc said and did some things that were unforgivable to Romy.”

“Daddy?” Coco’s words are cut short by a yawn. “Is Womy gonna be my new mom?”

“Oh,” I say.

At the same time, Elio says. “No, baby.”

I don’t know if it’s relief or hurt that washes over me, but my stomach is suddenly roiling and I’m speechless. I’ve always wanted kids, a family, and I adore Coco, but this is . . . unexpected. All of it is fast, too fast. Too much. Not fast enough.

No, baby.

For Elio to just blurt it out like that—not “maybe,” or “we’ll see,” or “I don’t know,” but no. It’s as if it’s written in stone. Maybe I misinterpreted our whole interaction on the stairwell back at the Moretti house. Perhaps I read more into what he said to his family in the hall.

“Romy is—”

“A friend. I’m your daddy’s friend,” I finish, giving him a pointed look. Even if what he said had just a small kernel of truth to it, this whole situation is a mess. His parents must hate me. His whole family is likely gathered around Nonna’s living room discussing how much of a tramp I am. I ruined her fiftieth wedding anniversary, caused her only grandsons to attempt to beat each other to death, and I didn’t even bring a present. Pretty sure I’m not going to be getting any more invites to Moretti family events.

Elio’s jaw ticks again and I turn my attention to the window and the mountains blanketed in gold and the burnished amber of fall.

A short time later, when the gentle rocking of the car lulls Coco to sleep, Elio’s gaze darts from the road to me and back again. “I’m sorry.”

I study his handsome face lit by the dash. I can’t read his expression, but his eyes are hooded with dark circles beneath them. He looks bone tired, and I wonder if all these years as a single parent and successful business owner have been exhausting. I could be his respite. I could have been all along. If only he’d let me in.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m sorry my brother’s a dick.”

“Elio—”

“I’m sorry you had to watch me beat the shit out of him.”

“Stop,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make you mine when I had the chance.”