I stripped out of my sopping clothes, then dried both of us off before leading him into the bed, getting him under the covers, then moving in beside him.
I couldn’t even begin to fathom what his loss was like, how I would feel if something happened to Emilio or Anthony. But I did know that if something—God forbid—ever did, that I would want someone there with me, holding me, but expecting nothing from me.
So that was what I gave Primo.
I held him. I stroked his back. I ran my fingers through his hair.
Through it all, he seemed somewhere out of reach, his eyes a million miles away.
I planned to keep touching, stroking, hugging.
The problem was, it had been a long, crazy day and evening. And without any form of external stimulation, eventually, I passed out snuggled up to his chest.
Waking up alone was disorienting.
For a long moment, it felt like the whole night before had been a dream. One that started out amazing and lovely, but ended with bloodshed, fear, and grief so strong it shook a man as unshakable as Primo Esposito.
It wasn’t until I stumbled out of bed and found Primo’s bloodied clothes from the night before in the trash that I was sure it had all been real.
But if it was real, where the hell was Primo?
Mind on that, I rushed to throw on leggings and a tee, then flew out of the bedroom, rushing down the stairs so fast that I nearly face planted.
Then there he was, standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee on the counter in front of him, and his phone in his hands, typing away.
“Primo?” I called, voice tentative, not sure how he’d gone from the broken man I’d held in the shower the night before back to his usual intimidating self, suit and all, within just a few short hours.
“Pack,” he barked at me, the sound so sudden and firm that I actually jolted at it.
“I’m sorry?”
“Pack a bag, Isabella.”
God, his voice was cold, chilling even.
I had no right to question his moods in the hours following such a world-shattering loss, but it still took me a second to take a deep breath so I acted out of compassion, not wounded pride.
“Are we going somewhere?” I asked.
“You are.”
“Where am I going?” I asked, stomach swirling.
“To your brother’s.”
“What? No.”
“It wasn’t a request,” Primo said in that same cold, flat tone.
“I’m not going to my brother’s house. I belong here.”
“You’re going. Pack a bag, or wear your brother’s clothes. Your choice.”
“Primo, no. I need to be here.” To help him come to terms with his loss in a less destructive way.
It showed just how far we’d come in such a short period of time. Because the woman I’d been a week or so ago wouldn’t have asked a single question, wouldn’t have even needed to pack a bag, would have just ran out the door and back to my family.
But I didn’t want to do that.
I didn’t want to leave Primo alone in his grief. Also, though, I just didn’t want to leave. I’d gotten used to the idea of us giving it a real go. And now he wanted to take it away?
No.
It was too late for that.
“You’re going. Walking on your own two feet, or thrown over my shoulder, but you’re going.”
“Primo,” I tried again, voice soft, reaching for the hand he had resting on the counter, but he yanked it away and turned his back on me, going back to texting on his phone.
“You’re going to have to drag me,” I told him, moving up behind him. “I’m not going to willingly leave you right now,” I informed him, pressing my face into his back, and letting my arms slip around him.
He let me do it.
For a couple long seconds before he yanked out of my hold.
“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging.
“Don’t do this,” I said, voice taking on a defeated edge.
“It’s all but done.”
“Primo,” I sighed, grabbing his arm, forcing him around to face me. “Stop.”
“Go get your shit,” he said, barely sparing me a glance. “You’re out of here.”
I was a nice person, damnit.
I had compassion.
I would never yell at someone who just had a loved one murdered.
Well, I always used to be that way anyway.
There was no denying, though, that when my mouth opened again, I absolutely yelled.
“I’ve put up with a lot of shit from you. But being a complete fucking asshole to me when I’m trying to be nice to you because your loved one died is not going to be another of those things. Look at me, damnit,” I snapped, shoving a hand into his chest to force his attention. “Your brother died,” I said, lowering my voice.
“I’m very fucking aware of that, Isabella.”
“You need to give yourself a chance to grieve.”
“I don’t need to be told what I need to do.”
“Clearly, you do. This,” I said, waving a hand at him and his perfectly put together appearance, “this isn’t normal, Primo.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“See this?” I said, waving my left hand at him. “This says it is my fucking problem, okay? You don’t like it, too fucking bad. Build a time machine, go back, and don’t kidnap and marry me. I don’t know what to tell you. But I’m here now. You’re not going to push me away.”
“You’re going.”
“I’m not,” I said, actually crossing my arms at him. “You’re not pushing me away.”
“I’m keeping you fucking safe,” he yelled, whatever control he had over his emotions finally snapping. And as scary as Primo in anger-mode was, I preferred it over cold and locked-down Primo any damn day of the week. “I couldn’t keep Terzo safe. I’m not fucking losing you too.”
There it was.
I knew it was under there.
But I needed him to get open about it.
“Primo, you can’t blame yourself for what happened to your brother,” I told him, moving forward, pressing both hands against his chest.
“Of course I can,” he said, voice low, a raw, ragged sound as his gaze slipped down to me. “Who the fuck else is to blame?” he added, his fingers sliding up my hip for a second before his hand fell again. “It’s my job to keep everyone safe. I have to keep you safe, lamb,” he said, eyes tortured.
“Okay, first of all—no, you are not to blame. The only person to blame is whoever was shooting at you. Secondly, you are one man, Primo. You can’t protect everyone at one time. That’s just not possible.”
“He was my brother,” Primo said, squeezing his eyes shut.
“I know. But you’re not honoring him by pushing everyone else away.”
“I’m not trying to push you away. I’m trying to protect you,” he said, an arm slinging around my waist.
“You can keep me in here,” I reminded him. “I’ll even go into the stupid freezer room when you leave if you want. But don’t make me go. I want to be here for you. I mean, I don’t know what to do, or how to help. But I will figure it out and then do it.”