Chapter 23
Dante
Anna can barely stay upright as I guide her into the back of an SUV. Her body collapses inward as if she’s made of loose string instead of bones, and her hair is unkempt and greasy. She is nothing like the woman I spent the night with almost five years ago.
The only reason I lifted her into my arms outside Lucia’s apartment is because Camille is asleep only doors down.
I couldn’t risk her waking to her mother’s slurring apologies and collapsed composure.
My act was not in tenderness for the woman who once captivated me enough to remain celibate for years.
It was the swift, quiet removal of a threat.
I’m tempted to tell the driver to take Anna to the nearest hotel, leaving her in his care, but my lawyers—yes, more than one—warned me earlier this week to play nice.
Until Anna notarizes the custody papers she left unsigned when she ran an hour after I deposited millions into her account, I have to be the better man.
With this in mind, instead of tossing bills at the driver for guaranteed discretion, I slip into the SUV behind Anna. I grind my back molars together when her head instantly comes to rest on my shoulder.
As we navigate through the streets of Carlisle, Anna’s words spill out in a tangled stream that hardly resembles speech. The driver keeps his eyes on the road, but I feel his discomfort each time Anna’s voice rises.
“I made a mistake,” she mumbles, dragging out each word. “When I accepted your offer… I shouldn’t have. I should have said no. I should’ve fought. We could’ve been a family, Dante.” She peers up at me, blinking back tears. “We still can.”
I shift my eyes to the scenery whizzing by my window, jaw clenched. “We tried. There’s no going back.”
Her laugh is brittle. “You never tried. Not really. You kept comparing every exchange we had to that one stupid night. You wanted the girl in the costume. Catwoman to your Batman.”
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. “I went to the party as Zorro.”
Rolling her eyes, she waves her hand dismissively. “It was a metaphor. I never said you attended the event as Batman.”
That’s a lie, but I’d quickly learned that correcting her is pointless.
Everything about this conversation is pointless, except for the part where I have to stay calm enough to avoid another scene playing out in the tabloids.
The Carusos have a loyal fanbase, so paparazzi chase us whenever we’re in public.
Anna exploited their disregard for privacy constantly during that turbulent month I tried to make things work with her.
She staged scenes in public, all false and misleading, and the following morning, my alleged failures as a father and partner were splashed across the headlines.
With Anna’s resurrection forcing our custody dispute to the courts, I want to avoid negative press.
I strive to keep my composure respectful.
She is Camille’s mother, so I owe her at least that much, but her actions make it difficult.
She’s drunk and so restless that every instinct in me is on edge.
Her index finger constantly glides under her nose, and her knee bounces as her eyes dart around the cab of the SUV, searching for something.
“Have you taken anything tonight?”
Her head snaps to mine, her expression offended. “No. I’m clean. I told you I’m clean now. That’s why I came back.”
I don’t believe her. She can barely keep her eyes open, and her movements are jittery and unfocused. I won’t mention how her voice keeps slipping into that frantic, breathless pitch I’ve heard too many times, or I’ll forget I’m trying to be a better man for my child.
“One of the conditions for me to even consider supervised visits while the court sorts out custody is drug-free blood tests.”
Her anger cuts through the fog. “Supervised visits? I’m her mother!”
“And Camille is a child who deserves to be safe.” My reply is snappier than I intend, but it can’t be helped.
The truth is fucking ugly, and I’m done pretending it isn’t.
“Do you want me to list what her medical reports show? The injuries? The neglect? Things no child should ever endure, but our fucking daughter did.”
She flinches at my raised words, but I keep going—not to punish her, but because she refuses to face the past.
“Fourteen scars. Six fractures that healed incorrectly. Multiple signs of concussions and neglect, and that isn’t even everything. That is only what the tests show. They don’t show how you hurt her here.” I whack my chest with my fist. “And here.” This time, I jab my finger at my temple.
Her eyes fill with tears, but I don’t look away. This has been a long time coming.
“You should be grateful I’m even letting this go to court,” I add, voice low. “Anyone else would be dead. You may not like being judged by that one stupid night”—I air-quote my last three words—“but what you don’t realize is that one night is the only thing keeping you alive.”
She glances down, her jaw trembling. For a moment, I see the version of her I once believed in, where she could have been a better mother if life had been kinder to her.
If she’d been stronger, everything might not have gone so wrong.
“I didn’t know. I swear. I-I was there, but I wasn’t...” Her words fade into a heavy, deep sigh. Her posture slumps in shame as tears streak her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
With my hands balled, I nod, accepting her apology, even though it’s a blend of genuine and fake.
It’s a weak response for a weak apology.
She was right when she said I constantly judged her on the night we met.
I thought I’d met my soulmate. Things didn’t work out as I’d hoped, but Camille came from that night.
I’ll never regret that.
Because of her, I offer more leniencies than I’m known for. Before Camille, I shot first and asked questions later. Now, I try to remember that my actions don’t just reflect on me. They affect Camille too.
“For the record,” I say, softer now, “I will never stop you from seeing Camille… once I believe she’s safe with you. I don’t have proof of that yet, and that’s why I can’t let you see her.”
“I understand,” Anna murmurs, wiping under her nose to remove the gunk spilled.
Silence settles over the car, thick and suffocating.
At the hotel, I exit first since traffic is heavy on Anna’s side. Anna slides out and immediately collapses. I catch her before she hits the pavement and pull her in close.
As a familiar burst of light blinds my vision, Anna grabs my face and presses whiskey-scented lips to my mouth. I pull back instantly, revulsion twisting through me, before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Don’t,” I warn quietly when Anna wordlessly pleads for me to remember the memory of our first kiss and how it led us to an unlocked storage room.
I’ll never forget it, but she’s tainted it with every forced attempt since.
She either doesn’t hear me or refuses to. “We were good together, Dante.”
Two more camera flashes blind me before I place my hand on Anna’s back and guide her inside.
Whatever she took affects her quickly during the elevator ride to the top floor.
I have to carry her down the hallway to her room, then knock when I remember she isn’t carrying a purse or any form of identification.
When the door opens, a woman in her mid-fifties stands inside. Her gaze is shrewd and emasculating, and the deep groove between her brows deepens when she spots an inebriated Anna in my arms.
“Anna.” She rushes forward, distressed and another emotion I can’t name. “Where have you been?”
When Anna’s response comes out as gibberish, the woman signals for me to follow her. I shadow her into a penthouse suite, which was obviously paid for with the twenty million Anna agreed to during our original custody agreement.
After I place Anna on a bed in the secondary room, the woman turns to me. “I’m Anna’s mother.”
My brow quirks. This is Camille’s elusive grandmother. I’ve heard a lot about her, but we’ve never met.
Camille’s grandmother drapes a blanket over Anna’s legs, then leaves Anna’s room.
In the spacious living room, she extends her hand in greeting.
I accept her handshake, but my guard rises.
Whether it’s the situation or instinct, the way she assesses me is calculating and emotionless.
She doesn’t care that I’m her granddaughter’s father.
She sees a big payday. I’m certain of it.
“Thank you for bringing her back,” she says smoothly. “You must be Dante.”
I nod. I could leave it there, but I don’t want everything Lucia has done with Camille to unravel. My daughter runs into my arms and giggles now.
I won’t let anything jeopardize that.
“When Anna wakes, please remind her that we have an agreement. She can’t come within a hundred yards of Camille until the judge makes his ruling.”
Her expression shifts as a cold, strategic mask slides into place. “Would you like a drink?” she asks, already pouring one. “We need to talk.”
I don’t want a drink. I want to go back to Lucia’s apartment and finish what she started. But if I can find out what they’re planning, I can implement steps to prevent any impact it might cause Camille.
After handing me a glass of whiskey, she gestures for me to sit. I do, albeit hesitantly.
I swirl the murky liquid as she goes straight for the jugular. “Your offer was unfair.” She knocks back a two-finger shot of whiskey without flinching. “Twenty million for full custody of a child whose father is a multibillionaire is absurd.”
I pfft. Of course this is about money. When isn’t it?
Her smile is thin and practiced when the only thing I can do to stop myself from retaliating is to down the double shot of whiskey.
She pours herself another glass before angling the bottle my way. I decline her offer without words. The brief sample I had tasted like garbage. It’s too gritty for the smoothness the label claims.
Whiskey sloshes over the rim of her crystal glass when she spins back around to face me. “Child support alone will exceed that over eighteen years, so it’s understandable that we’re seeking full custody.”
“A judge will never side with that.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Her words shoot out of her mouth like poison-tipped daggers. “Judges favor mothers. They always have. And you, Dante”—she steps closer, lowering her voice—“better learn to play fair, or you may lose more than your fortune.”
My hands curl into fists. I am furious. Not solely because of the threat, but because I now have something to lose.
Someone to lose.
And this bitch fucking knows it.
Doesn’t mean I don’t understand my rights, though.
“If you want to go down that route, I won’t hesitate to squash you like a bug.” My words slur at the end of the sentence, and I try to shake off the wooziness bombarding me. “Even without the evidence I have, your daughter will never pass mandatory drug testing.”
“And neither will you.”
I glare at her, lost. “I don’t do drugs. Never have and ne-never will.”
What the fuck? Why am I slurring? I only had one drink—one drink that made Anna’s mother smirk smugly when I downed it.
That fucking bitch.
“You… you…” I fall forward more than I race for her. Whatever she gave me dissolved in my drink as fast as it hit my bloodstream. I’m on my ass in an instant, and the world spins too fast for me to grasp. “I’m… going to kill you. You’re… fucking dead.”
As bright lights float in front of my eyes, Anna’s mother stands over me.
“If you remember this, which I highly doubt you will, before you do anything stupid, remember you filed a custody motion with the courts. If we go missing, the first person they’ll interrogate is you.
I’d hate for them to have to question Camille.
I had four years to tell her a heap of scary bedtime stories about her father and the men he lives with.
You’ve barely had six months to change the narrative.
We both know whose stories will stick with her the most.”
It’s a fight, but I work up enough saliva to spit in her face.
Her disgust is the last thing I see before the dancing lights fade to black.