A while later, Vissi walked into the room, shoulders low, face defeated, a whole arm of his gray jacket bloody like he’d taken a bullet himself.
“We gotta get upstairs,” he said, voice uncharacteristically hollow.
“Okay,” I agreed, nodding at him, knowing that in this situation, it was my turn to take the lead, to be the strong one, to be there for my partner when he needed me.
I got to my feet, reaching down to pull Primo back onto his as well.
I wrapped an arm around his lower back, and pressed the other to his chest as I led him back toward the elevator.
Vissi gave me a nod, staying out of the car, and letting us ride up alone, knowing that Primo needed some time to grieve, to process, and not wanting to intrude.
I didn’t know how to comfort someone who’d just lost a brother. That was so outside of my wheelhouse. But I did know that Terzo’s blood was all over Primo’s hands and shirt. I could at least help him with that.
So I led him through the apartment and up into the master bath, turning on the water in the shower, then moving back toward Primo, helping him out of his clothes as he just stood there, completely lost in his own grief. I wasn’t even sure he even really registered my presence right then.
But that was okay.
It wasn’t about me.
Once I had him undressed, I led him toward the shower, intending to go back and take off my own clothes first, but his hand refused to let me go, pulling me inside and under the spray of water with him.
My hands slid over his ribs, then wrapped around him as I moved into his chest. “I’m so sorry, Primo,” I said, giving his big body a squeeze. “I don’t know what else to say. Or what to do. So I’m just going to be here, okay?” I said, giving him another squeeze. “If you need anything, you can tell me. But for now, we can just do this,” I added.
I don’t know how long we stood there under the spray.
But I made sure the blood was gone before I finally cut off the water when we both started to sway a bit from standing so long.
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.