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“Now, let’s clear up a few things,” Mikhail says. “You touch my wife again, in any way, I cut off your hand. I hear you speak badly about her, I cut out your tongue. You dare to even think about hitting her ever again, I cut off your head. Am I clear, Bruno?”
Mikhail turns his gaze toward me, looks down at my hand on the work surface, then tilts his head to the side, offering me his chin. Slowly, I reach out and brush away the remnants of the flour using the back of my hand, taking slightly more time than necessary.
The neural pathways in my brain must have snapped and rearranged themselves, because in that instant, I decide I’m done. My issues with skin contact can go fuck themselves. I grab Bianca’s hand, pull her to my side, and wrap my arm around her. Not close enough. She’s not close enough. I tighten my arm around her and stand with her back plastered to my front. The pressure in my chest eases. That will do. I don’t need a shrink to interpret my actions. When a man has already lost all he’s held dear, it’s normal for him to become slightly unhinged and scared it may happen again.
“V tvoyikh glazakh kusochek neba, solnyshko.” She looks at me, confused, so I translate for her. “It means, ‘there is a piece of the sky in your eyes.’”
