Chapter 25
Dante
Aviolent jolt rips me from sleep so abruptly that, for a few seconds, I don’t know where I am, what time it is, or who I’m supposed to be.
The world is hazy and blurred, my usually perfect vision smeared with fog.
My head pounds a deep, rhythmic thump. It isn’t a normal hangover headache, more my brain seeping out of my ears.
I blink, forcing the room into focus. When my vision finally clears, I recognize the furnishings and the faint citrus scent that always lingers in the air.
I’m in the apartment next to Lucia’s studio—the one I bought with cash.
I’ve been here every day for two weeks but have no idea how I got in this bed or why I’m naked.
I used to sleep naked before Camille came into my life, but that stopped when her silent screams became impossible to ignore.
A cold ripple slides down my spine.
In my teens and twenties, I did some crazy things, but I never woke up with no memories of the night before.
Snatching my phone from the bedside table, I squint at the screen glare. I groan when I see the time. It’s halfway through the afternoon. I haven’t slept this late in years—not since my life became a cycle of endless responsibilities and vigilance.
After pulling on sleep pants, my movements sluggish, I enter the hallway and call for Camille and Lucia. The apartment is silent; both the living room and Camille’s bedroom are empty.
My pulse spikes as I beeline for the sheet that’s done a shit job of protecting Lucia’s privacy. I’ve stalked her numerous times the past two weeks. Within minutes of putting Camille to bed, I prop my shoulder against the shared wall and pretend to catch my breath after a long day.
Truth is, I’m listening. Not to invade or pry. Just to be close to her in a way I can’t be just yet.
Lucia’s studio is as vacant as the kitchen I passed by, and sparkles as if scrubbed spotless by a professional cleaning service.
I hired a company to clean both apartments weekly, but they’re booked until Friday. That’s tomorrow, right?
My jaw twitches as I check the hallway outside, hoping to see Marco stationed there. The corridor is empty, and the silence is deafening. Marco signs off when I’m present, so his absence means nothing on its own, but it also doesn’t mean Camille and Lucia are safe.
A cold, tight panic seizes my chest.
Confused, I swallow several times. My mouth is dry, thirst clawing at me enough to consider drinking from a toilet.
I don’t recall drinking last night. I haven’t had alcohol in weeks.
With everything happening with Edoardo and the custody mess with Anna, I avoided adding to the pressure of keeping Camille safe, so why did I go on a bender last night of all nights?
Needing answers, I contact the only person who can provide them.
Giovanni answers my call on the second ring. “Dante.”
“They’re gone,” I blurt, my tone raw and frantic. “I can’t fucking find them. I don’t remember if they told me they were going somewhere or if they’ve just vanished. I think I saw them last night—”
“Slow down,” he cuts in. “Who is gone?”
“Camille and Lucia. I woke up, and they were gone.” My stomach gurgles. “Could it be Edoardo?”
I can’t see Giovanni, but I imagine him shaking his head when a whoosh sounds down the line.
“We’ve had eyes on him all week. He isn’t close to that region of Carlisle.
” The swishing eases enough that I stop viewing the sink as a bucket.
“Edoardo also has no reason to take Camille. He knows that will only end one way.” He makes a throat-slitting noise.
After a beat, I speak words I wish to never speak again. “What about Anna? Would she be stupid enough to do this?”
The thought of a mother hurting her child should be incomprehensible. Regretfully, I have to look at Anna’s relationship with Camille through tainted glasses. Camille has injuries consistent with prolonged mental and physical abuse.
The Anna I met on Halloween seemed strong enough to protect her child. But the Anna from last week is barely the woman she used to be.
“I’m skeptical,” Giovanni answers. “She doesn’t want custody of Camille. She wants money.”
I hum in agreement, though I don’t know why. Last week, Anna stated that this was about what was best for Camille. She insisted Camille needs both parents in her life. She even offered to return the twenty million I’d paid if I tore up the custody papers she’d only partly notarized.
“The fact you didn’t find Lucia and Camille in the apartment most likely means they’re together. Did you call Marco?”
My head throbs as I dismiss his question. “He clocks off when I’m home.”
“It’s three in the afternoon, Dante. I’m reasonably sure he would have clocked back on by now.”
I stop pacing and grip the counter until my knuckles ache.
“Even if Marco isn’t tracing their every move, Lucia will keep her safe,” he adds. “I’ve seen how she is with her on the surveillance clips they’ve come up in. She’s worse than a mama bear protecting her cub.”
The knot in my chest loosens a fraction. Giovanni is right. If Camille is with Lucia, she’s safer than ever. Lucia is fiercely protective and has shown Camille how to defend herself.
Just last week, I watched Lucia teach her how to escape a perp’s hold. She made it seem like a game, and Camille hung off her every word.
“You’re right.”
“I know.” I roll my eyes, and he waits for my growl to simmer before he asks, “And you, D? Are you okay?”
I want to tell him I’m fine, but honestly, I don’t even know what fucking day it is. Maybe Thursday? My mind is a blank slate where time should be. The lack of memories, on top of this week’s battles, has me at my limit.
Edoardo’s claim of matrimony was proven legitimate, so I legally cannot touch Lucia until she explicitly states, without coercion, that their marriage is over.
Having her close but not being allowed to touch her is fucking killing me.
It is the worst form of torture.
The void deepens when I check my phone. What I see floors me.
I’ve lost two days. Two whole days are fucking gone.
I scrub a hand over my face, and my heart rate kicks up a beat. A faint, unmistakable scent lingers on my hand. It’s not the ghastly floral products Anna slathers her skin in each morning. It’s sweet and intimately familiar.
Lucia’s scent is on my skin.
Her intimate scent.
I don’t know what it means or how Lucia’s scent still clings to my skin a week after our last encounter. But I do know I can’t piece any of this together without her.
“Find them.” My voice is steadier now but still rigid. “Please.”
Giovanni relays the order to Nico, who reports back a moment later. “They’re at the grocery store with Marco, getting supplies. Someone’s eating fancy tonight. Lobster tails for you and crab sticks for Camille. No fucking clue who the ramen noodles are for.”
“Lucia,” Giovanni and I say in unison, well-versed on stubborn, beautiful women who refuse to accept a life vest even when they’re drowning.
Although I’m pissed Lucia still can’t put herself first, my lungs finally accept a full breath.
“Okay.” I exhale slowly. “If they have perishables, they should be home soon.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Giovanni asks, suspicion creeping into his tone. “You’re acting strange.”
I want to tell him I’ve lost two days of memories and ask him to find them, but that will only cause panic, which always leads to my brothers stomping over the privacy I’ve barely had a moment of recently.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’ll call you later.”
I hang up before he can question me further.
Needing to scrub the confusion off my skin before Lucia and Camille come through the door and see me like this, I head to the bathroom.
As I step inside, I notice a washcloth hanging partway out of the laundry basket. It’s damp and scented with soap, and the trash can is without a liner, as though it was removed in a hurry.
My stomach twists again, but no matter how deeply I search through the sludge in my head, nothing emerges.
In the shower, hot water pounds my back as I search for answers that refuse to come.
I couldn’t have gotten blackout drunk. I’ve been struggling all week not to start a mafia war, so I might have had a drink to keep myself in my apartment instead of watching Lucia sleep, like a lovesick idiot, but a drink or three wouldn’t erase memories or explain why I woke up naked.
I don’t masturbate to my daughter’s nanny in a bedroom where evidence could be left.
I do it in the shower like all dirty old perves do.
When the water turns cold, I relinquish my fruitless search for answers. I quickly dry off and then get dressed. As I leave the bedroom, footsteps outside the apartment freeze me, and my attention snaps to the door.
Are Lucia and Camille back?
Ignoring my thumping temples, I race to the door and throw it open so fast the hinges protest.
The person requesting entry isn’t Lucia or Camille.
It isn’t even Marco.
It’s a court-appointed pathologist that the judge approved to drug test Anna throughout our custody hearing and subsequent ruling.
“Mr. Caruso,” he says, holding a clipboard and a sealed kit. “I’m here to administer a mandatory drug test ordered by Judge Sullivan this morning.”
My blood runs cold.
Of all the days for this to happen, this is the worst possible time.