Chapter Text
Furio had never made a habit of considering the aftermath. Quick strides in the opposite direction were the only denouement he'd known. Now, watching it play out from a distance, he wondered how he'd come to this point without forming a mental image of any kind.
It was horrible. Beautiful, in a way, but horrible.
The children - not really children at all, now - were shoved out the door, shielded from the sight by well-meaning strangers even as the restaurant patrons scattered in all directions. Their faces were masks of horror and agony, cast in a weird monochrome by the neon and the night.
Carmela came later. The way she was ushered out of the restaurant, clothing splashed with blood, reminded him of a photo he'd seen once, of the wife of an assassinated president. But unlike the lately widowed Mrs. Kennedy, Carmela was distraught, half-collapsed in the arms of the two strangers who were dragging her away from the scene of the violence, her face contorted in an anguished wail.
Later, he would find he couldn't remember if he'd heard her scream. Watching through the car window, half a block away, it might as well have been television. For days, the scene replayed silently in his mind, from the raising of the gun to the moment when his tears had blurred it all beyond recognition. When he'd finally thought to clear them, the family had been whisked away and the onlookers were milling around without purpose.
He didn't stay to witness the removal of the body.
He had been in the country for two weeks when it happened. He waited several more, before going to see her. Occasionally he drove the streets of her neighborhood, even venturing to pass her house when he deemed it safe. At first the activity there was constant, friends and family holding vigil with her, an endless parade of foil-wrapped baking dishes. Over time, the traffic thinned. The children, who had been living there in the aftermath of the tragedy, slowly found their way back to their own lives. Even Carmela’s parents let their visits dwindle to once every few days.
On a quiet morning, when he knew the house was otherwise empty, he finally ventured up the drive.
He rang the bell and waited, schooling his nerves as he’d long been trained to do. After a moment’s silence, her shadow fell on the frosted glass, and the door swung open.
Her face was drawn and colorless. She was dressed and coiffed as immaculately as ever, but there was a dullness to her that struck him immediately. Even so, she was unforgettable. Her hands hovered anxiously at waist level, as though waiting for some occupation. In spite of her apparent grief, she had lost none of the nervous energy that had always illuminated her to him.
A beat, and then her eyes went wide. “Furio? Holy Mother of God!”
He was staring, taking her in. She leaned to one side and glanced around him, a subtle but telling reflex, and he wasn’t sure if her fear was for herself, or for him, or both. She gestured hurriedly with one hand, but her voice was as controlled as any soldier’s when she said breezily, “Please, come in.” When he was safely across the threshold she stole another glance down the drive, before closing the door and locking it firmly.
Finally, she turned to him, and time stopped for a moment. She exhaled sharply, an incredulous sound, her fingers twisting together just in front of her sternum as she met his eyes and shook her head.
“What are you doing here?”
His heart softened at the sight of her. “I return from Italy,” he offered, then clarified: “Just for a little while. I hear about Tony. I come to pay my respects.” He watched her eyes as he spoke, assessing her reaction.
There was nothing shrewd or calculating in her expression as she processed this. She simply nodded - then, remembering herself, she turned. “You want some coffee? I could heat up some past’.”
She was already halfway down the hall, endowed with new purpose, and he followed, taking in the familiar house as she led him to the kitchen. It was almost as though he had never been away, and a jolt ran up his spine at the memory of Tony descending the back stairs, shabby and loathsome in his bathrobe, his bulk both physical and metaphysical seeming to take up the whole room. His presence still hung over the house, Furio realized. Carmela had borne the great weight of him in life, and she bore it still.
He could see the shadow of it on her face as she looked at him across the kitchen island, waiting for him to ask for something, buzzing with undirected energy. He didn’t want her to serve him anything, but by way of appeasing her, he said, “Coffee would be good.”
She made the coffee with apparent alacrity, set it on the island near where he stood, then crossed her arms and considered him briefly. He was content to submit to her inspection.
“I was so disappointed when you left,” she said at last, with a briskness that entirely failed to diffuse the tension between them.
“It was not easy,” he said, “to go without saying goodbye.”
“I prayed that everything was okay.” She glanced at the ceiling as though confessing something. “I had hoped we might hear from you.”
“My family, they keep me busy,” he said, a little lamely.
She nodded encouragingly, but he couldn’t bring himself to elaborate on the lie. Instead, he met her eyes earnestly. “How are you doing?”
She sighed and looked away. “It’s been a nightmare.” She shook her head. “And the kids, losing their father - it’s been hard on them. But, we’ve had a lot of support. I don’t know what I would’ve done. And Tony, God bless him, he did everything he could to make sure we’d be taken care of.”
Her eyes narrowed a bit, as though hoping he would accept this well-rehearsed answer. He didn’t, but he knew better than to press her.
“I should go,” he said, giving her an out.
“Oh, really? Well, okay.” His heart swelled a bit at the earnest disappointment on her face. She walked around the island to stand at his elbow, and for a moment he didn’t move, turning instead to look down at her.
“I am sorry. About Tony,” he said. “Thank you for the coffee.”
She didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t touched it. “Any time.” He felt her fingers brush his sleeve, light enough that he might’ve imagined it. “I mean it. Don’t - don’t be a stranger.”
Still face to face, a current seemed to pass between them.
“You must not tell anyone I was here,” he said.
Her eyes went wide at that. He could see the understanding wash over her. So - she knew. There was a bounty on his head, and she knew the risk he was taking by coming here. There was only one reason for her to be aware of this - she must have spoken to Tony about what had been, between them. His chest tightened. He gave her a small smile.
“Of course not,” she said finally. The way she looked at him made his heart flutter. They stood, for a moment, suspended. He wanted to touch her so badly that he had to break away. He took a step backward, and time snapped into its usual rhythm. A moment later, she had ushered him out the door and he was climbing into his car. He looked up just in time to catch her furtive glance down the driveway - vulnerable, suspicious, ready to bolt.
He made his own assessment of their surroundings, but nothing struck him as a threat. He looked up and down the deserted street, but all was peaceful. He intended to keep it that way.
He came again after that, and again. The second visit was under the guise of bringing wine he'd forgotten the first time, but the third visit had no purpose that Carmela could discern. Polite as ever, he seemed simply to be checking up on her.
Selfishly, she enjoyed it. Furio was the only person who had seemed genuinely concerned for her, without needing her to perform a role, or comfort them in their own bereavement. She almost felt she could've confided in him - about her inability to reach A.J., or about Janice's hysterics, or how her parents' grief sometimes threatened to eclipse her own.
She didn't, of course. She made him coffee, and tried to feed him, though he always refused. His visits were brief, and friendly, and she was doubtless reading too much into the way his eyes seemed to hold hers, a few seconds too long.
Later, alone in the bed she had once shared with Tony, she would admonish herself for thinking of Furio. One night, in anguish, she got down on her knees and prayed to the Blessed Virgin for the strength to weather the loneliness. Some nights she slept on the couch, or in Meadow's deserted bed, or she simply didn't sleep.
On the few mornings when she made out his silhouette through the foyer window, the weight of it all shifted within her. He brought her an unexpected reprieve.
Driving to the hospital after another of his short visits, she found the lightness within her persisting. It felt good. It felt hopeful.
Three steps away from her destination, the weight crashed back down.
Paulie and Patsy were standing over the bed where Silvio lay sleeping. The tubes that had protruded from his throat had been removed, replaced by a bulky bandage. Carmela stood frozen, unable to step through the door, not really sure why her heart was suddenly pounding.
A nurse stepped hastily around her, jolting her from her momentary daze. She took a breath to steady herself, and then forced herself to enter.
Paulie looked up when she entered, and greeted her with an “Oh!”
The two men parted to make room for her at the bedside. “How are ya, honey?” Patsy asked.
“I’m alright.” She gestured to Silvio. “How’s Sil?”
“He’s gonna pull through,” Paulie told her. “Breathing on his own now and everything. A miracle, the doc said.”
“Thank God.” She crossed herself and gazed down at the wounded man, paler and smaller than she remembered, but breathing evenly. Then she braced herself, forcing her voice not to waver. “Is there any word on –?”
Paulie’s face darkened at that. “Not a thing.” He made a gesture of frustration. “Nobody wants to cop to it. Fact is, with Phil Leotardo gone, there’s nobody left to shoulder the blame. Some kid trying to make his bones, maybe.”
“Did you remember anything more?” Patsy asked her.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve tried. But he was no kid, I’ll tell you that.”
“It’s alright, honey,” Paulie said. “I’ve got guys on it up and down the coast. We’ll find him, the strunz.”
Patsy put a hand on her arm. “The good news is, with both families hurting the way they are, nobody has the resources to carry on with a war. It’s over. You and your kids can rest easy.”
Carmela nodded, unable to find any comfort in this. Patsy’s war was over, and Tony’s life was over, but her new reality was just beginning.
“Did you get that envelope from Little Paulie?”
She forced a smile. “Yes I did. Thank you.”
“Don’t you worry about anything,” Paulie said. “You’ll be taken care of. Tony made sure of that.”
She nodded, trying to ignore the way her guts seemed to turn to ice. She wasn’t stupid enough to think they’d be so kind behind her back.
They were interrupted by the sound of the door opening to admit Gabriella Dante. Carmela turned, and found herself swept into an embrace.
“He’s gonna make it,” Silvio’s wife said tearfully.
“That’s wonderful, Gab.”
Gabriella brushed tears from under her false lashes. “They said he has brain damage. He’s gonna have to learn to walk and talk again and everything.”
“I’m so sorry,” Carmela said, still holding her friend by the arms. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Gab sniffled. “The important thing is that he’s here.” The smile she turned on her husband was beatific with relief, and Carmela wondered if she’d once looked the same way, safe in her vigil at the bedside of a living man.
She gritted her teeth against the flood of tears that welled up within her. She knew better than to break here, but her face ached with the effort of maintaining her smile. Gabriella turned big, shining eyes on Paulie and Patsy as the three of them gazed down at Silvio, whose survival now stood between them and chaos. Their ship would not be rudderless - there was hope. Carmela was barely aware of backing away, eyes swimming, until she was already out the door. She fled before they could see her cry.
The only thing worse than the nighttime was the evening. A.J. came and went like a shadow, but mostly he was absent, distracting himself from his pain with newfound friends. Not knowing what else to do, Carmela cooked dinner for herself, and ate alone. It was an interesting puzzle, trying to figure out how to adjust her familiar recipes to feed fewer people. She enjoyed challenging herself to work through the fractions in her head. But even when she planned for leftovers for A.J., it was always too much food, and the untouched dishes piled up in the refrigerator until she was forced to throw them out.
Sometimes she cried when she scraped them into the garbage, and laughed at herself at the same time, and then marveled at the freedom of the empty house, with no one around to make fun of her. Once, she shouted something obscene just to see how it felt, but the big house absorbed her voice, and made it small, and there was no satisfaction in it.
On the night of her visit to Silvio, with no appetite for her own cooking, she pulled out the bottle of wine Furio had brought her. She caught herself stealing a glance at the back stairs as she examined it, not really sure if it was A.J. or Tony she was watching out for. There was an approximately equal chance of either of them descending those stairs tonight.
The bottle was dark green, wide and squat and heavy-bottomed. In lieu of a label, there was a tag tied to the bottle’s neck with a piece of twine, and she fingered this, idly turning it over. For the first time, she noticed the writing on the back. In pencil, in small, fine letters, there was an address. A New Jersey address.
The moment she spent staring at nothing with the label between her fingers seemed to stretch to infinity. But the moment she spent walking to the car and pulling out into the road barely seemed to happen at all. It was drizzling a little, and the streetlights appeared smudged in the darkness. It reminded her of a painting.
She didn’t think until she was standing on the stoop of the little house.
Unable to bring herself to ring the bell, she stood frozen. The only thing keeping her there was the absolute terror of turning to flee and being caught in the act. There was nothing to do but ring, and wait.
Furio’s face was absolutely beautiful, she thought, as she watched the flurry of emotions that passed over him when he answered - a neutral expression giving way to surprise, and maybe delight, and intrigue, and then the whole thing smothered again into neutrality.
“Carmela.” He was holding a dish towel, still drying his hands.
A wave of doubt crashed over her. “I’m sorry, I -” she gestured behind her, stammering. “- I don’t know why I -”
She caught a flicker of a smile. “No! Please. Come in.”
He stood aside, holding out one arm to usher her past, and she was keenly aware of how close she came to his body as she hurried through the door, not quite turning to face him once she was inside.
“I was just making dinner,” he said, throwing the towel over his shoulder as he headed down a short hallway toward a tiny kitchen. “You could join me.”
“I really didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, trying not to wring her hands, which were suddenly clammy.
He was stirring a pot of sauce, evidently ignoring her as he raised a spoonful to his lips to test the seasoning.
“Would you please -?” He gestured to the spoon that he’d left leaning in the pot. Galvanized by the chance to occupy her hands, she took over stirring.
He leaned around her with a pinch of some herb in his fingers, and she was so tense, the movement startled her. She couldn’t help it: she turned her head. Then he turned as well, and when their eyes met, almost nose-to-nose, the tension in her chest was painful. Everything in her was screaming for her to flee, but she was paralyzed.
He reached up, and his knuckles brushed her cheek.
It was the push she needed to break the spell. She turned away, and tried to step back, but he caught her arm, and she was forced to turn into him as he pulled her in, and then his firm hand was on her lower back, and his lips were warm and insistent against hers.
Her mind was spinning - her singular, ridiculous thought was that she had no idea how to really kiss someone. But it didn’t matter. With a hand cupping her face he pulled them together, sucking her upper lip between his in a way that was somehow both heated and tender. He opened his mouth and probed with his tongue and she couldn’t help following his lead, swaying weakly into him as she let him in.
No one - no one - had ever kissed her like this. It was slow, and sweet, and the ache she felt in her heart was mirrored by a terrible, wonderful pooling of heat that started deep in her core. She opened her mouth, and wrapped her arms around him, and tasted him on her tongue.
She felt she might turn entirely to liquid, and be absorbed into him. But no - no. She couldn’t. With her fingers on his face, she broke their contact, grazing his lips and eyelids as she pushed him away.
“I can’t, I can’t,” she was mumbling.
His fingers trailed up into her hair as he pulled her close, kissing her forehead, her temple, her earlobe. His voice was a low rumble.
“I love you, Carmela.”
She pulled back and stared, wide-eyed.
“I loved you,” he added, “a very long time.”
“Furio, I don’t - I don’t know.” She was lost, wavering, needing to pull away but unable to make her body comply. Her hands were on his chest, arms folded between them, and he was embracing her completely.
He shushed her. “Don’t say anything.” His lips brushed her eyelid. “Think later.” He kissed her lips, lightly. “Be here now.”
The warmth of him, wrapped around her, was so soothing that she couldn’t seem to open her eyes. He kissed her again and she didn’t resist. Her heart was still thundering, but the nervous hum that was always present in the back of her mind had gone strangely silent, and she was sinking into the soft sturdiness of him.
With one hand, he groped distractedly for the knob and turned off the burner, the tomato sauce all but forgotten. Carmela was barely even aware of him pushing her until she backed into the wall. Startled, she opened her eyes and took in the ugly, outdated wallpaper of the hallway, but his lips never left hers, and when his hands found their way under her sweater, her eyes fluttered closed.
With his fingers pressing insistently into her ribs, he was guiding her again, pushing her backward down the hallway, their feet not quite tangling enough to trip them. They stumbled through a door on the left, into his dim bedroom, and Carmela didn’t have time to look around before he was pulling her sweater over her head. She simply allowed this, raising her arms, letting her lips reconnect with his when it was done.
Still kissing her, he hastily unfastened the buttons of his own shirt, shrugged out of it, and threw it against the wall. Suddenly she was aware of the heat of his skin against hers, as her hands nervously traced his collarbones and over his shoulders, completely at a loss for what to do. She expected him to throw her onto the bed, more or less as Tony would’ve done, but instead he paused, his knuckles lifting her chin gently as his kiss turned slow and soft. He buried his face in her neck, nuzzling her pulse point and the tender place just below her ear, and she shivered.
Tony would’ve been inside her by now - huffing and panting and crushing her into the mattress, all hot breath and erratic rhythm. Robert Wegler had been sweet, but not particularly exciting - the fun had been in the novelty, rather than in the act itself. But Carmela hotly resented her own inexperience, now, as Furio’s fingers grazed the band of her bra, and he pulled back to study her face. Her blush felt like flames lapping her face.
“Are you alright?” he asked. He cupped her face with both hands, gently pushing strands of hair back.
She gave him an unsteady smile. “Honestly? I’m not sure.”
He smiled in return, leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. “Let me take care of you, Carmela, please. Like I’ve imagined.”
A surge of adrenaline shot through her. “I don’t -” she stammered. “I don’t know -”
He reached around her and, without dropping her gaze, unclasped her bra. She was trembling, but she made no move to stop him.
“Please,” he repeated, “let me show you.”
He stepped forward, pushing her back. Then his fingers were at the waistband of her slacks, unbuttoning them and pushing them down, letting his palms caress her thighs until the cloth fell in a pool around her feet. Shyly, she stepped out of her pants and shoes. He took another step forward and she moved back reflexively. Her calves struck the edge of his bed.
He stepped out of his own pants in a smooth motion, then moved into her space again. With aching, almost teasing slowness, he grazed her shoulders where her bra straps hung loose, the cups still barely covering her. Then his fingers were on her ribcage again, brushing lightly upward until they found their way under her bra. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. The pads of his fingers moved up the sides of her breasts, and then his thumbs found her nipples, teasing them with gentle, soft strokes.
When he slid the straps over her shoulders and down her arms, she forced herself to watch his face. His expression was rapt as he took in the sight of her, licking his lips before he dove back in, kissing her neck and cupping her breasts in his palms. He leaned into her and she sank down onto the bed. Supporting himself with his hands on either side of her, he pushed her back until she was lying down, and her legs wrapped naturally around his hips. For the first time, she noticed his erection straining through the soft, stretchy cloth of his boxer briefs. Her eyes flickered to his.
He grinned, pressed a quick kiss to her lips, and then took her by the thighs and pitched her legs onto his shoulders. She gasped, and he sank onto the floor between her knees. Time stood still for a long moment, and she rolled her eyes upward, unable to watch. She was shaking with anticipation.
She jumped when he finally touched her, one finger grazing downward over the crotch of her panties, which she realized now had grown somewhat damp. He let out a low hum, a satisfied sound, as he caressed her the same way a few times, his fingers tracing over the thin cloth and the soft skin beneath.
He drew back, and she jumped again when he pressed his face to her mound, his mouth hot and wet at the apex of her slit. Her fingers twisted into the comforter. She wanted to buck her hips into that warm, sweet pressure, but she was terrified to move, terrified to do anything that might stop him.
Her heart thumped in her chest when he pulled her panties to the side, exposing her warm, wet folds. His finger traced her slit again, and she shivered under his touch. The need for more turned to a hot ache, deep inside her. Tentatively, she raised her hips, straining into him as much as she dared.
She heard him chuckle and froze, feeling abashed. When she looked down she found him waiting to meet her gaze, and the smile he gave her was kind, if a little mischievous.
“You are very beautiful,” he remarked, dropping her eyes in favor of gazing between her legs. Heat flushed her cheeks and she closed her eyes.
A second later his tongue found its way to the rim of her opening, probing in little, lazy swirls. She was trembling, hands fisted in his blanket, as he made his way upward. By the time he circled her clit she was past controlling herself, and she moaned aloud, grinding into his mouth. He seemed to take this as permission, and he cupped her ass with both hands, then smoothly slipped her panties off and tossed them aside.
He was attacking his task with relish now, burying his face in her, lapping at the soft skin of her labia. She was very wet, she realized with more than a little embarrassment. It had been a long time since she’d felt that sensation, the slick, hot moisture.
“Perfetta,” he mumbled, before his tongue found its way inside her. Her hips moved in involuntary circles against his mouth, and she gasped when a finger replaced his tongue, soon joined by a second. They curled upward into her g-spot, and her swollen clit ached with need.
“Holy God,” she gasped. The flat pad of his tongue lapped at her tender nub, and his fingers drew her ever upward, her back arching off the bed as her soul ascended until stars burst behind her eyelids.
The release was like nothing she’d ever felt before - legs shaking where they draped over his shoulders, hips convulsing as her inner walls spasmed around his fingers. Her breath was coming in little sobs, and her eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that they streamed with moisture.
He eased her down from her peak, holding her hips in both his hands, nuzzling her gently as he slowly lowered her back onto the bed. He pushed himself forward and trailed kisses over her stomach until they were face to face, and when he kissed her, she tasted herself. She pulled back, startled. There was laughter in his eyes as he kissed her again, with sensual slowness, until she gave in and her tension softened. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“My God, Furio,” she whispered.
He smiled. “Carmela. I cannot tell you how long I have wanted to do this.”
She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t protest. No man really wanted to. But in the afterglow, she found it hard to question anything, or think at all. She could feel his hardness pressing against the dripping wetness between her legs, and for the first time in her life, she simply relaxed, and opened herself, and let him in.