Chapter 17
Lucia
Karma bites my ass the instant I exit my building.
Chilly air rushes through the thin sweater I insisted was “fine” while handing a thick winter coat to a homeless woman.
As I drag the trash bag down the stairs, fingers stiff around the plastic, my breaths fog in the frigid evening air.
I should have kept the stupidly warm coat Dante bought, but no. I had to be difficult.
I had to be me.
By the time I reach the bins at the side of my building, my toes are turning blue. I toss my trash bag in and then hurry back up the driveway. As I rub my arms, I curse myself. I may not survive my first Sicilian winter without a proper winter coat.
I slip inside my building, grateful for cover from the icy winds blowing off the coast. I’m about to lock the door when I notice movement through the stairwell window.
On the underground stoop, a woman is shielding her daughter from the wind with her body. The child’s face is buried so deeply in her tattered coat, only the top of her head is visible.
I don’t think. I never do.
After scanning the foyer to ensure no one is watching, I open the door, pushing against the wind, and motion for the woman and her daughter to come inside.
The woman cranks her neck back to me, and despite the exhaustion carved into her face, she shakes her head.
“It’s warm and dry,” I assure her, not wanting to push. Her trust is low for a reason. “You can sleep in my apartment. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
The child shivers, a small, involuntary tremor that seals her mother’s fate. She nods once before bracing the winds to cross the driveway.
After ushering them inside, I pull the door shut behind them before the icy breeze can follow, then guide them to the elevator. They continue to shiver even after we enter my apartment, where they can see every shadowed corner the homeless always search before resting.
Excluding the new entryway Dante’s contractors installed, the paint is peeling, and my furniture is old and unattractive, but to them, anywhere dry and safe is the equivalent of a palace.
“Stay here,” I say softly. “I’ll be right back.”
I gallop down the stairs two at a time, heart racing. It isn’t from fear, more urgency. The building supervisor’s words echo in my head as I enter the laundry room. People leave stuff behind all the time.
He wasn’t wrong. I return to my apartment carrying armfuls of mismatched blankets. They’re worn but clean. After handing two to the unnamed woman, I lay the rest along the wall, away from the door, and tuck them in as you would when making up a comfortable bed.
When the little girl’s curious eyes track my movements, I offer her a smile. She only blinks in return.
“You can sleep on the bed,” I tell the mother. “Unfortunately, it can only be for tonight, since my lease prohibits long-term guests. In the morning, I’ll take you to a shelter nearby.”
She stiffens as her pupils dilate to saucers. “We tried that one earlier.” A frightened shiver finalizes her reply. The volunteers from West Suffolk have never been homeless, and it shows. They also expect payment for services in terms other than money.
I pull out a pamphlet my backpack is never without. “Don’t go to the West Suffolk shelter. You want the one on Del Oro Street. They only take mothers and their children. It’s safe. They’ll feed you and help you figure out your next steps. Don’t go to the others. They’ll turn you away or… worse.”
Her grip tightens around her daughter.
“Del Oro,” she repeats quietly.
I nod. “Third building on the left. It has a blue awning. They open at six.” I hesitate before adding, “Say you already tried West Suffolk. They’ll know.”
Again, she nods, eyes shining now with relief instead of tears.
Suddenly aware of how tired they seem, I say, “I’ll leave you to rest.”
As I pull closed the curtains that separate my room from the living area, the little girl climbs onto the mattress, still wearing shoes.
That isn’t unusual. Unless you want to risk losing them, keep your valuables on you at all times.
I’m more shocked about how clean her shoes are.
They’re too clean for the streets. Too new, and the hundreds of rainbow sequins that catch the light when she flops onto her back causes me to lose my appetite for life.
I recognize those shoes. I saw them held up with pride only hours ago, and heard the silent gasp of delight when they were found in the right size. Small fingers guarded them as if they were priceless treasures the entire time we were in the boutique.
They’re Camille’s shoes.
I’m certain of it.
The world wobbles as I look from the girl to her mother, my throat almost too constricted to speak. “Where did you get those?”
The woman follows my gaze and smiles fondly. “A little girl gave them to her earlier today. Her father said they had extras, and they asked if we’d like them.”
Extras?
My heart aches so painfully that I have to press my hand against it to keep it in place.
Camille gave away her shoes.
Was that because of my stupid stubbornness? Did I force her to give away something she wanted because I’m too afraid to accept help?
My fear is understandable. Edoardo’s cautions don’t come with leeway. If anyone finds out about our arrangement for me to pay for the custody of our child, I’ll lose more than the parental rights I lost within minutes of him being born.
I’ll lose him entirely.
Not trusting my voice not to crack if I were to talk, I nod before I finish closing the curtains. I need to back away before the guilt and grief tangled around my heart spill out in front of witnesses.
As I head to my makeshift bed, the cold follows like an accusing shadow. It presses under my ribs until the promise of a restless night suffocates under its weight.
I lay on the scratchy blankets for over an hour, tossing and turning. I’m so hypocritical. I taught Camille to stand up to her father, all the while cowering from my own.
If my father had raised me with half the values Dante is instilling in Camille, I would have stood a better chance against men like Edoardo.
Bowing my head wouldn’t be my first instinct.
I would have fought years ago and perhaps had enough dignity not to let my child be taken away from me after only a brief exchange of harsh words.
Guilt slams into me, leaving me reckless. Not thinking, I snatch up my phone and hit a contact at the top of the screen.
I anticipate Edoardo to deny my request, so you can picture my surprise when he answers after only a handful of rings.
“It’s late.”
“I know. I just…” I trail off, unsure what I can say that won’t seem desperate. My next words are pathetic, but I push on. “I need to remember what I’m working toward, Edoardo. I’m struggling.”
When I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my shirt, clearing away any spilled contents, his glare makes it seem as if I don’t scrub my clothes clean after being gifted them from a homeless shelter. “I thought we had an agreement?”
“We do. I still have three weeks before the next payment is due.”
His brow arches, prompting me to fulfill his request the last time we spoke.
I forcefully swallow, my throat dry from his indecent stare. Like a woman with no rights, I nod, then slowly pull my sweater over my head. My bra—a stage piece—immediately draws Edoardo’s attention. He licks his lips before an arrogant grunt rattles through my phone.
I didn’t wear it for him, but I angle my camera so he can’t mistake how well my breasts fill the lacy red bra.
Snap.
My chest heaves when a familiar click sounds in my ears.
“What are you doing?” I snatch up my sweater to cover my chest.
He takes a moment to peruse the image he took of me before he murmurs, “Making sure this is worthwhile.”
I can’t breathe when the background behind him changes from a rich, masculine space to a softer and childlike setting within a handful of strides.
“If you wake him—”
“I won’t,” I promise, whispering.
He appraises the authenticity of my pledge before he spins the camera to face Gabriele. He’s sleeping peacefully in a bed too large for his small frame, softly snoring.
I trace his adorable face before brushing my lips against the screen. Then I try to make sure Edoardo having a picture of me in lingerie is worthwhile for me as well.
“Delete that,” Edoardo says a second after I double-tap the back of my phone, taking a silent screenshot. “Now.”
I flutter my lashes, feigning daftness. “Delete what?”
“The screenshot you just took.”
My hair slaps my face when I shake my head. “I didn’t take a screenshot.”
“Now!” He brings his face to within an inch of the screen. “Or you’ll never see him again.”
I want to call him out as a liar, to scream that he doesn’t have the guts to cut off the money I pay each month. But the moment he grabs Gabriele’s arm, jolting him awake, my fight surrenders.
Submissively, I delete the only photo I have of my son and beg for mercy instead.
“Please let him go, Edoardo. He’s only a child. He didn’t do anything wrong.” Tears spring into my eyes, matching the wetness falling from Gabriele’s blue eyes. “Please…”
My chest burns through a desperate breath when he releases Gabriele from his clutch.
“This month’s fee is forty thousand,” he demands, marching out of our son’s room, uncaring that he’s crying.
“I don’t have—”
“Forty thousand,” he repeats before disconnecting our call.
I stare at my phone screen, incredulous. There’s no way I can bring home forty thousand in a little over two weeks. Not morally, anyway. Thirty was already a struggle. Forty will require major changes.
My apartment will be the first thing to go. It’s a luxury I can no longer afford, but its loss will still bring me only two hundred dollars closer to my target.
Needing to find a job before my grief swallows me whole, I tiptoe into my room to collect my backpack. The little girl is sleeping on top of the bedding, the fluffy pink coat covering her too insulated to need blankets.