She was almost inconsolable. “Please! Please! Use your gun.”
Sal’s eyes popped from sockets. “Er, a little extreme—”
“He has taken what is mine, Angel!”
Sal quickly spoke in Italian, “We really need to explain a thing or two to her about weapons.” Then he said, “Scarlett, it won’t break. I promise.”
Becoming unhinged, Scarlett pulled away from me and screamed, “Scar! My name is Scar!”
That name had my temper flaring, immediately. “Both of you, stop! Right now!” The kitchen went quiet, except for the dishwasher. “Now, tell me what the hell is happening.” They both pointed to the noisemaker. I lifted a brow. “Sal, please explain.”
“Hurry,” whimpered Scarlett, nibbling on her fingers.
Sal opened the machine in mid-cycle. Water dripped from every item, including the damn plastic cup. “I was only trying to clean it.” He grabbed it. “See? Not broken.”
Scarlett reached out, her trembling hand hanging in midair, silently begging for the item, so I took the cup from Sal—while grumbling to him, “Maybe we can wash it in the sink for the time being.” Then I turned to her. “Scarlett, I’m going to give you back your cup, but you need to try and remember that Sal would never hurt you, or,” I snarled, “your cup.”
I think I hated that cup so much because it was a glaring symbol of her past’s hold on her. One I had physically pulled her from—her tormentors—but the mental anguish was not so easy to peel from her. As long as she needed that cup, I felt like I was failing her.
As we all stood still, lingering in the quiet moment, Scarlett stared at the offered cup but didn’t take it. Finally, she pulled her hand to her chest, then looked to Sal. “Could you please explain why you have stuck it in that machine?”
I glowered at him because that should’ve been done in the first place.
Hearing me loud and clear, he dipped his chin. “Scarlett, I deeply apologize for scaring you.” He gestured and sounded a tad bit condescending. “This is called a dishwasher. You put the dirty dishes in, and they come out clean.”
Totally missing his sarcasm, she was now intrigued. “Like a body shower?”
Her innocence robbed him of all rudeness. Sal looked to the ground. “Yes. Exactly.” I knew he was remorseful.
Scarlett eyed her cup… then said, “I am okay with you giving it a shower.” With her shoulders set, she walked to her room.
Still not looking up from the marble floor, Sal whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Feeling bad for him, I hugged him. “Hey, relax. This is new for all of us.”
His forehead rested on my shoulder. “I can’t believe finding her only added to our already impressive pressure.”
“And it may only get worse.”
His true worry finally came forward. “Do you think Mamma is okay?”
As I worried for Isabella, he worried about his wonderful mother. I tightened my hold. “Your father, nor Pietro or Cristian, would never let anything happen to her.”
“I’ve never felt like I had to inspect every single movement around me. Not even at the Giordanos. I wish someone would just tell us something.”
Exhaling, I agreed, “So do I, my friend. So do I.”
He released me to lean back against the counter. Chuckling, he confessed, “I almost shot a squirrel.”
I laughed. “I guess it is better than Scarlett shooting you.”
His laugh grew. “Drastic, no?”
Laughing, I agreed, “And after all the cooking you have done for her.”
“Right?”
Sal, once again trying to use slang, had me saying, “Now you sound like a girl from one of those reality shows.”
Teasingly, he sneered, “Sal Rossi is all man.”
‘Baby steps and patience’ became our motto as the first week passed us by. As had the dishwasher, the washing machine also dumbfounded Scarlett. Sal put in dirty clothes—after convincing her to put on a fresh undershirt of his. “See? Now, we will add soap.” After all was ready, he started the machine.
Never had we known watching clothes wash could be so entertaining. Seeing Scarlett sit in front of that front-loader machine, completely enthralled with the process, was another tender moment I was learning to appreciate. She pointed. “Bubbles!”
Sal tapping on his cellphone had me asking, “What are you doing?”
“Telling Mae to add Bubble Bath to her list.”
Even though I had aimed a gun at Mae, she still dared to return from time to time to clean our home and deliver anything we requested.
My eyes raced to Scarlett. She was going to love that. And it was Sal’s idea.
Sal peered over my shoulder as I started texting. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I texted Mae:
Please add candles to that list, too.
Thank you
Scarlett loved the dryer. Well, she loved when the clothes came out nice and hot. She held our unfolded, straight from the dryer clothes to her chest and sighed. “They are so warm and smell so good.” I stood there, smiling in the doorway, until she said, “Like you, Angel. You smell wonderful.”
“Hey!” complained Sal. “Do I not smell wonderful?”
She rubbed the warm clothes against her face. “Oh, you smell just fine, Sal.”
Licking the inner part of my lips as I backed down the hallway, I tapped my chest, smirking at the loser. And that, fucker.
He chuckled, “Asshole.”
As I walked away the victor, I heard, “What is asshole, Sal?”
“Errrrrr…”
Putting my clothes away, Scarlett sat on my bed and watched. “Why am I here and not in, um, where is it again my mother is?”
I closed a drawer. “Italy.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “It is very hard to understand, um, places.”
“Well, let’s fix that.” I walked to my open bedroom door and hollered, “Sal!”
“Yo,” echoed from the other side of the house.
I shook my head. “Slang. Not yo thang, remember?”
His reply? “May you be a baldheaded old man before your time.”
Scarlett was watching me laugh at my friend, but the way she was focused on my mouth somehow felt… private. “Uh,” out my door, I stuttered, “do, you uh,” cough, “have a—”
“Today, Mr. Angelo Bianchi,” sung out from the other side of the house.
“Atlas. Yes, that’s it. Does your fancy home have an atlas by chance?”
“On it, bro.”
Heading back to my last pile of clothes, I rolled my eyes. “He’s impossible.”
Scarlett nodded even though I was confident she was clueless to my meaning. Then she shocked me with, “Why do my eyes want to stare at your mouth?”
“W-What?”
It was a tricky balancing act to acknowledge Scarlett for the young-minded person inside a twenty-something-year-old woman her body exhibited.
She rubbed her stomach. “I feel it here.”
“Er, I’m not sure.” I grabbed a stack of clothes and turned away.
“Oh, okay. Um, should I put my gift clothes in my drawers?”