Chapter 2 #2
Guilt floods the stranger’s beautiful face. “Sweetheart, I can’t. I…” Her singsong voice trails off as her brain hunts for an excuse.
When she doesn’t find one, her narrowed eyes snap up to mine. Defiance dances in them.
Good. I loathe people who immediately fold.
“I can give you ten minutes, but any more than that is going to cost you. I can’t miss this shift.”
A dark curl fans across my forehead when I dip my chin. “The store is barely a two-minute walk from here.”
When I twist to face the door, her mouth opens, then closes.
She gives the impression that she wants to argue, to tell me I have no right to disrupt her schedule.
She’s correct, but I don’t play nice when it comes to my wants, so I won’t mention how treacherous they are when it comes to my daughter.
I can’t wait to teach her that. The first lesson will have to wait until we’re not being scrutinized by curious eyes. Camille’s happiness beams out of her in silent waves, and it triples when she tugs the still-unnamed stranger toward the door, afraid she’ll change her mind if given time to think.
When I exit the dentist’s office on their heels, I signal to the driver that his assistance isn’t required before I shadow Camille’s and the blonde’s steps. As Camille leads the blonde stranger down the sidewalk, the stranger continually glances back at me every few steps.
Is she checking whether I’m following or seeking the closest exit?
If my intuition is any indication, it’s most likely the latter.
Her instincts are as in tune as mine, but she keeps walking anyway.
The sweets shop is a block away, and even though Camille has only visited this dentist once before, she knows the way by heart. Sweets are the fastest route to her heart, and her uncles know that as well as I do.
With more gusto than I’ve witnessed previously, Camille pulls the woman into the storefront with a pastel awning and glass jars lined from the floor to the ceiling.
The bell above the entrance jingles when I enter behind them. The air is thick with sugar and nostalgia. Caramel, chocolate, and vanilla blend into a familiar scent.
Camille’s body shakes with excitement as they rush toward the truffles. While eyeballing the candy with a greedy glint brightening her dark eyes, she keeps the blonde glued to her side.
When the shopkeeper turns his back to scoop a bag of licorice for another customer, the blonde glances over her shoulder to check that the coast is clear.
Worry slips over her face as her eyes lock with mine, but she still reaches into the display case and plucks an unwrapped truffle from a tray of many.
Her moan about the smooth goodness infiltrating her taste buds schedules another unexpected meeting between my cock and my zipper.
Panic blisters across Camille’s adorable face, but like the blonde, she quickly and subtly plucks a chocolate from a dish and pops it into her mouth.
The blonde’s grin when she taps Camille’s nose, telling her to keep quiet, is deviant. It doesn’t belong to someone anywhere close to innocent, and it coils heat low in my stomach.
The stranger winks at me, and the rules that usually regulate my moods loosen.
People think I’m rigid and unyielding. A man of rules and consequences. They’re not wrong. In my world, rules keep you alive, your enemies buried, and your family breathing. But I’ve always believed rules are tools, not chains.
You bend them when you need to.
Break them when you must.
Watching Camille steal a moment of rebellion feels right.
Six months ago, when Anna showed up on my doorstep with nothing but the clothes on her back and our daughter in her arms, Camille was a different child.
She was unnaturally quiet, and her belief that being seen but not heard wasn’t healthy.
She flinched at raised voices, even humorous ones, and froze whenever she made a mistake.
I swear, for the first two months, she waited for permission to breathe.
Anna raised Camille with rules, but there were too many of them. The control suffocated her rather than shaped her into the individual she was meant to be.
Camille is only four, yet her mother expects her to know which fork to use at a dinner party. My brothers don’t even know the difference between a salad and a dessert fork, so why does a four-year-old need to?
Every aspect of her life was designed for her. How to sit, how to speak, how to exist without offending anyone.
A four-year-old had more rules than any adult I’ve known.
I didn’t realize how deep it went until Camille panicked over choosing the wrong crayon color. She wasn’t experiencing childhood. She was in captivity.
So, although I will eventually teach her that stealing chocolates in a candy store is still theft, it isn’t something I need to dwell on right now. She needs this snippet of freedom, and with it, she’ll learn that the world won’t end if she steps out of line.
She’s allowed to live.
The blonde doesn’t know the weight of what she’s giving Camille. She thinks she’s helping Camille be a kid, leading me to realize something I should have seen sooner.
Camille isn’t drawn to her because she’s kind.
She’s drawn to her because she’s brave. That truth further proves that Camille needs someone like her in her life.
Camille needs someone who will show her that the world isn’t built of rigid lines and punishments.
Someone who will teach her that courage can be quiet.
Strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s shown through small acts of rebellion.
Although I’ve been trying to do that since Anna left without a trace, I only now realize I don’t have everything Camille needs.
Camille spent her first four years with her mother, but watching how she absorbs every ounce of attention the blonde gives tells me everything I need to know.
Whatever Anna gave her wasn’t this. It wasn’t softness and safety. Camille craves the love only a mother can provide, and this stranger is giving it to her without even realizing it.
With the shopkeeper’s attention back front and center, the stranger straightens up, brushing chocolate dust from her fingers on the way.
She doesn’t look at me as she guides Camille toward candy more suitable for her age.
She doesn’t need to. I can read her body language.
She’s still hesitant, but the fact that I didn’t balk at their petty theft means she isn’t as wary as she should be.
From a distance, I watch them select their candy, and for the first time, I feel something far more dangerous than hope.
It’s longing, and it isn’t solely about ensuring my daughter lives her best life.
That’s fucked to admit, but it’s honest.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when an attention-grabbing cough rings through the store. Camille and the blonde have completed their selections, and the cashier is ringing up their purchases.
As I approach the counter, the cashier announces the total.
The blonde’s head ricochets as if she were slapped. “Eighty dollars?” Silently, she weighs the three small bags full of goodies in her hands. “Eighty dollars for barely three pounds of candy is highway robbery.”
Camille doesn’t react. She’s too busy eyeballing the treats that will see her returning to Dr. Baglio’s practice earlier than anticipated.
The stranger, on the other hand, looks seconds from fainting. She glances at me, then at the register, then back at me again, waiting for me to protest.
I don’t.
I hand over my card without blinking.
Money is the least of my concerns. I’ve spent more on a glass of wine at my favorite restaurant. Eighty dollars is nothing, though it seems bank-draining to the stranger.
She stares at me like I committed a crime, before mumbling, “I’m glad I’m not the one paying for that.”
Her snicker pulls me out of my thoughts and grounds me in the present. I’ve been too deep in my head, thinking about rules, Anna, and how Camille lights up around this woman that I almost miss how endearing her shock is.
It proves she doesn’t understand my world and how I’d pay eighty thousand if it made Camille smile like this just once.
Hell, I’d give everything I have if it came with a guarantee that Camille would remain this carefree. That’s how much her happiness means to me.
When the cashier hands me the bags, I guide Camille outside with my hand on her shoulder. The blonde follows, still shaking her head.
Once we’re on the sidewalk, Camille immediately drops to her knees and starts dividing the candy into three piles. Her movements are precise and deliberate. One for her, one for me, and one for the stranger.
With one bag filled with a third of her loot, she stands and then thrusts it toward the blonde.
The blonde blinks back tears. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I can’t take your candy. It’s yours.”
Camille shakes her head, pushing the bag into her hands again.
The stranger is overwhelmed. Her swallowing is a laborious process, and her eyes go glassy, but she makes no attempt to take Camille’s offer.
Again, Camille’s bottom lip wobbles. This time, it isn’t in sadness, but more stubborn determination. Stepping closer, she presses the bag into the woman’s chest with both hands.
Her message is clear.
Take it.
The stranger’s body temperature rises. Although she wants to continue teaching Camille that sometimes it’s okay to be selfish, her constant glance at my Rolex confirms her “walk” to work will take longer than the hour she has left until her shift starts.
She doesn’t have the luxury of arguing with a four-year-old who refuses to back down.
“Okay,” she whispers, accepting the bag. “Thank you. Next time, it’s my turn to pay.”
Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence. Camille doesn’t notice. She beams silently, proud of herself.
As the stranger crouches next to Camile and pulls her in for a hug, I signal for the driver to move forward.
Though I’d give anything to push the blonde for more time, we’re also on a time crunch.
This afternoon is my eldest brother’s baby shower.
Giovanni would hang me from the rafters by my nuts if I were to invite a stranger to the festivities.
The last time that happened, his wife-to-be almost lost her life.
That doesn’t mean whatever the fuck this is, is over. It’s merely on the back burner for whatever time is needed to set aside for a baby shower.
The blonde’s chest rises and falls in quick succession when I slide my phone out of my pocket and hand it to her.
“Give me your details.” When suspicion flares through her murky blue eyes, I add, “Then I can ensure you’re compensated for your time today.” It’s the most pathetic excuse I’ve ever given, but when you’re clutching at straws, any excuse is viable.
She pushes my phone back my way. “Not necessary. I was happy to help.”
Even with nothing but honesty blazing from her, my silent command doesn’t weaken in the slightest. I let Camille’s mother walk away from me without exchanging names or numbers, then spent the next four and a half years scorching the earth for her.
I refuse to make the mistakes of my past.
“I insist.”
“Seriously, it’s fine. I don’t need—”
“I insist,” I say again, interrupting her.
Her swallow is audible. It echoes off the tinted windows of my SUV until it’s swamped by the whoosh of her grabbing my phone out of my grasp and the stabs of her nails as she inputs her details into my contacts.
With a smile that’s more fake than real, she thrusts my phone into my chest and then peers down at Camille. “You did so good today, Camille. I’m very proud of you.”
Camille hears the honor in her tone as readily as I do. Faster than I can snap my fingers, Camille hugs her so firmly that her face mushes with her thigh.
I’ve been plotting ways to include her in my daughter’s life since she poked her index finger into my chest, and the desire becomes urgent when a faint whisper claws at my chest.
“Th-thank you.”
The world halts spinning as the truth smacks into me. I can’t fucking breathe.
Camille spoke. Finally.
Six months without a single word. Six long months of only glances, gestures, and the ache of not knowing how to communicate with my child, and it’s fixed with two little words.
Am I dreaming?
I can’t be. The blonde’s reaction is instant.
Her eyes sparkle with admiration, and her smile warms my face more vividly than the late-afternoon sun.
She has no idea how rare and precious this moment is.
She’s simply in awe that someone raised by a brute can be respectful and courteous.
Her shocked expression announces this, not to mention the briefest flash of praise she gives me while swooping in for another hug.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
After a final glance my way, she disappears through the crowd with more spring in her step than when she walked into the lion’s den without any armor.
As I watch her race toward the Palermo train station, Camille cozies up next to me, quiet again. She’s worried this will be the last time she’ll see the mysterious blonde. I’m not facing the same torment.
While ruffling Camille’s nearly black hair, I speak words I haven’t even ruminated on yet. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. She won’t be gone long.” When she gazes up at me and smiles, the absolute truth barrels into me.
Magic doesn’t cease because you’ve been hurt.
You simply need to hone your skills as all the greats do.