Chapter 17 #2
Like her shoes resting at the side of the bed, her winter coat is familiar. No doubt another gift from Camille.
Knowing I’ll never move forward to right my wrongs with a major one dangling above my head, I snatch one of my most valued possessions out of my backpack, walk to the freshly painted wall between mine and my neighbor’s apartment, and knock.
The sheet I hung between our apartments earlier today sways in the draft of my brief knocks. It smells like Dante, me, and everything I’m trying not to think about.
I acted like a brat earlier. No, worse. A feral cat in an animal shelter, hissing at the only person offering it a hand. When I’m angry, I don’t use cruel words. I use actions that are just as nasty.
Dante’s quiet the past few hours proves this without doubt.
If I know him as well as I want to believe, silence means he’s thinking… and that perhaps he’s disappointed in me.
That maims more than anything.
A few seconds later, a clipped reply whistles through the sheet. “Come in.”
My lungs take stock of their oxygen levels before I pull aside the curtain and enter Dante’s recently acquired apartment. In an instant, the homeliness of the apartment swirls around me. The lighting is soft, and the aroma of a yummy dinner lingers in the air.
It feels like home.
Dante is in the kitchen, clearing away two smeared plates from the built-in granite table. His hair is damp from a recent shower, and his beard shows the effects of a humid room. He doesn’t look angry. Just… tired.
When I join him in the kitchen, the pulse fluttering in his neck quickens. A third untouched plate of food sits to his left, the steam from the aromatic dish long gone. He wraps it in plastic film without looking at me. His movements show no emotions at all. Not anger or disappointment. Nothing.
That also hurts. Greatly.
“I was wondering if I could see Camille?” My voice is weak and pathetic, beaten down by the fight I recently lost. “Please.”
Dante hesitates, his eyes brimming with conflict. Then, slowly, he nods. “She’s asleep, but if you promise—”
“I won’t wake her. I promise.”
He doesn’t hesitate this time. With more trust than I deserve, he nods again. “Second door on the right.”
After smiling at him in thanks, I walk down the long hallway.
Camille’s room is different from what I expect.
It’s filled with pastel colors and intricate details that show how much thought went into its design.
Fairy lights emphasize the stud-pressed headboard, and a fluffy rug under her bed makes sure any accidental falls are well cushioned.
A bookshelf sits at the right of her bed, its shelves overflowing with stories fit for a little princess.
I send thanks to God for quality workmanship when I tiptoe across the floorboards without a single creak. If only I could say the same for the snow globe I place down on the bedside table. I haven’t cranked the musical dial in weeks, but it plays a faint melody that instantly wakes Camille.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my eyes darting to the door, expecting Dante’s arrival at any moment.
When his impressive frame fails to fill the door after several heart-pounding seconds, I shift my focus back to Camille. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She brushes away a strand of hair stuck to her pillow-creased cheek before she scoots up in bed.
My panic eases into happiness when her eyes shift to the peace offering I brought her.
It’s a little boyish since the castle, horse, and carriage of the castle-themed globe are blue, but she gazes at it as if it’s the most precious gift in the world.
Her excitement is too infectious not to feed off it.
“It’s a musical snow globe.” I lift it carefully, turn it over as I did with the toy plane hours ago, then twist the crank. Once it’s turned all the way, I shake the globe, then balance it in my palm.
When the horse and carriage circle the castle, Camille beams. The twinkling of the fairy lights in her room makes the scene even more magical, and her happiness swells my heart with pride.
“Do you like it?” I ask, fighting not to cry.
She nods so fast that if Dante didn’t know she was awake, he does now.
“Good. I’m glad.”
When I place it on the bedside table, next to a photo of Dante and her, she peers at me as if to say, It’s mine?
I nod.
God, I wish she weren’t so easy to read. She doesn’t need words to communicate. Her expressions tell the entire story.
Why?
“Because…” I try to explain my mistake in a way that won’t dampen her confidence.
I love that she has a voice, but I don’t want to be responsible for her getting in trouble for that.
The rules governing the mafia differ from those of a standard family.
She doesn’t have the same power as those around her, and despite my desire to tell her to pay them no attention, that could cause her more harm than good.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to give away your clothes, Camille. I was being stubborn and… stupid.”
Her brows furrow before she shakes her head.
“You loved those clothes, so you should have kept them. Your daddy bought them for you.”
Her headshake shifts to a nod, and then she walks to the closet. She opens one side, and I gasp. Every outfit we picked today hangs neatly inside, untouched.
“But… I thought…”
She opens the other side of the closet, exposing more clothes. These ones are still in boutique bags, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize what they are. They’re duplicates of the clothes I gave away.
“He bought double?” I whisper, certain my head is playing tricks on me. It’s been a long day, so it’s understandable.
Camille nods proudly, slowly learning how precious her father is. This isn’t something anyone I’ve met in the Cosa Nostra would do. They’d never be so generous.
My eyes sting as I swallow hard, but before I get close to getting a hold of my shock, Dante appears in the doorway. He props his shoulder against the frame, then drifts his eyes to Camille. “You’ll be as grouchy as Uncle Matteo tomorrow if you stay up all night. In bed, young lady.”
Camille gives him the full arsenal—wide eyes, pouty lip, and begging hands.
“I’ve already read you a story. Three, actually.”
Her bottom lip barely drops a smidge before he sighs, defeated. “One story. Then straight to sleep.”
I step back, ready to leave, but Dante’s hand closes around my wrist before I can.
My heart thunders as I struggle to clear the effects of the zap rocketing up my arm from his familiar hold before peering up at him.
I expect him to be furious that I didn’t keep my promise, but all I see is a silent plea for me to stay.
I do.
Don’t ask me why I fold so easily. I’m too tired to make sense of any of my actions today.
After a thankful squeeze of my hand, Dante sits beside Camille and brushes her hair back from her face before he tells a story about how it’s okay to ask for help.
He explains how it can feel weak to admit you’re struggling, but that it isn’t.
His voice is low and soothing, the kind that makes you believe every word he speaks.
His story breaks through to a place I boarded up years ago, a place I don’t let anyone touch. It’s so terrifying knowing how easily he can burst through the walls I spent years building that the instant Camille’s breathing slows and her eyes flutter shut, I slip out of her room.
I can’t believe in fairy tales. How could I when my world is full of nothing but trolls, witches, and evil, vile men?
In the kitchen, a film-wrapped plate on the counter stops me in my tracks. A sticky note clings to the top of the steamy food. Its instructions are clear.
Eat.
My heart thuds painfully against my throat. I thought Dante had placed film on it to store it away. I didn’t know he was reheating it for me. I didn’t think I’d still have the right to eat his food after so poorly denying his earlier generosity.
I jump when Dante appears behind me, his steps as silent as a ghost. His eyes drift from the plate of food to me before he whispers, “Not everyone is out to get you, Lucia.” He moves so close, his breaths warm my neck as well as they defrost my snap-frozen heart. “Some people just want to help.”
I want to believe him—God, I do—but Edoardo’s warning won’t quit echoing in my head.
If I tell, he will kill Gabriele.
I have no reason not to believe his threat. Time and time again, he has proven to be a man of his word, and the nightmares that keep me awake every night are the sole reason I’ve continued to sell a piece of my soul month in and month out.
Even without the threat to my son’s life, I can’t ethically drag Dante into this. As Dante said only a week ago, his actions don’t solely affect him anymore. They affect Camille as well.
He’s striving to make this world fairer for her. I can’t let my selfishness interfere with that. If I don’t want Camille to fall into the traps I fell into when I became of age, I need to keep her out of this mess.
Even with my determination at its peak, I lean into Dante’s embrace and steal the comfort his closeness rewards me.
I don’t deserve it, but I wasn’t lying when I told Edoardo I need to remember what I’m fighting for.
I had no clue when I said that that I wasn’t solely referencing Gabriele.
It’s also for the little girls who don’t have a father like Dante standing at their sides, fighting for them.
When Dante’s arms cocoon me, it takes a monumental effort to pull away from him, but I manage. Just.
“Goodnight,” I whisper before I slip back into my cold half of our apartment with my heart breaking like it isn’t already in a million pieces.