Chapter 26
Lucia
The café door jingles as I slip inside, and buttery air envelops me like a cozy blanket on a winter morning. Even though I moved to Carlisle only months ago, the scent of cinnamon and sugar offers a crutch I don’t deserve but am quickly craving.
Camille and Marco are waiting in the car, and I’m still pretending that stopping at a café for a pie is a perfectly normal errand for a live-in nanny.
Preparing Dante a nice dinner in the hope it would make him feel better wasn’t my idea.
Camille suggested it, and I latched on to it, hopeful if I keep busy, I won’t have time to think about anything else.
Luna is behind the counter today. Her long legs announce why she was a favorite in the local strip scene. She’s a beautiful woman who could demand top dollar, but instead she chooses to work at a café for minimum wage.
I haven’t explored her reasoning yet, but I hope to one day follow her path. Waitressing won’t give Gabriele the life he’s used to, but at least it’s honest work.
Luna spots me instantly. “Hey.” She leans forward, a playful smile toying with her lips. “Are you still looking for work?”
My head nods before my brain catches up. It’s a survival instinct. The person I have to be answers before the person I hope to become can intervene.
She joins me at the pie station. “An old client mentioned a private gig next weekend.”
Just like that, my stomach drops. Private gigs always surface out of nowhere when you’re desperate.
“Thanks, but I swore off private parties a long time ago.”
She gives me a knowing look. “I thought you’d say that, but I had to ask. Some dancers are happy to look past their beliefs for ten thousand dollars.”
Ten. Thousand. Dollars.
I shuffle back a step from the five-digit number. Ten thousand would jumpstart the thirty thousand I still need. It could win me a precious moment with my child if I play my cards right. But it could also destroy everything.
“No,” I say again. I aim for my voice to sound firm, but it comes out weak.
I hate that Luna can hear the wobble of my indecisiveness.
Her expression shifts, not in pity or judgment, something in between. “Okay. I respect that.” Her smile reveals that she knows this is hard for me. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Her dainty hand waves around the café. “I’m always here.”
“Thanks.”
I grab the pie, pay, and then head for the door. Halfway out, I snag a newspaper from the stand. I tell myself it’s for the classifieds. That I’m being responsible. But the truth is, I’ve been pretending for days.
This isn’t my life. It’s a far cry from wagyu steaks and lobster, but it’s easy to get swept up in the hype of being needed.
When I slide into an SUV idling at the curb, Marco presses a finger to his lips before nodding toward the back seat.
Camille is fast asleep. Her head rests against her booster seat, and her breathing is soft snores.
She appears peaceful and innocent, like the darkness of her father’s world hasn’t reached her yet.
I’m not surprised. Dante is different from what I expected when I learned his name. Camille is only four, but he not only respects his daughter’s boundaries but also encourages them. He teaches her it’s okay to say no, and that just because he is her elder doesn’t mean he’s always right.
My father taught me the opposite. The only time I was “seen” by him was when it would benefit him. Those times were generally during functions like the one that finally saw me pushing against the restraints.
He paraded me like an object that could be purchased for the right price. When I thought I’d finally broken free of that, I stumbled into the arms of the wrong man.
“Park for a bit,” I whisper to Marco. “Let her sleep.”
He nods before pulling into a quiet alleyway. While he taps the steering wheel in time to the song on the radio, I open the newspaper and browse the classifieds. I’m not really reading. My heart hasn’t been in this search for the past few days.
That’s dangerous to admit. It isn’t my fault. I get attached too fast. I always have. It’s the downfall of growing up in an unloved environment, and the sole reason I turned down Dante’s offer in the first place. I knew I’d fall into this too easily and too deeply.
Guilt prickles under my skin.
Gabriele deserves better than I’m giving him.
Now I flip through the paper faster, hunting for any sign of a new club opening. Dante may have purchased every strip club in the country, but unless he has a crystal ball, new establishments could still be on the table for me.
I slice my finger on the edge of the newspaper when I reach the entertainment section. Papercuts hurt like a bitch, but they’re nothing compared to the pain that shreds my heart when I see a large colored photo in the “around town” section.
The photo is grainy, but no amount of de-pixilation could have me mistaking the back of Dante’s head. Manicured nails are tangled in his hair, and a woman’s mouth is pressed to his. He’s not melting into her embrace, but my heart still stops.
I force myself to stay calm. It could be an old image. It might even be staged. Then I read the headline.
Carlisle’s Reformed Bachelor Back to His Old Tricks!
The date and location of the article are listed under the headline. It was apparently taken last night.
My veins freeze, my fingers numbing around the paper.
“Marco…” Picture a wife scrolling through her cheating husband’s messages after hacking into his phone. Now you have an idea of how possessive my voice is. “Where did you pick up Dante last night?”
He frowns. “I didn’t collect him last night.
One of my colleagues did.” When I arch a brow, incapable of accepting such a nonchalant response, his Adam’s apple bobs.
“Do you want me to check the logs? We keep records of the comings and goings of all the Caruso hierarchy.” I nod before I can remind myself that I have no claim to this man, so why do I believe I can stomp on his privacy?
“One of my colleagues collected him from”—he squints at the report too small for me to see even while seated next to him—“San Therasia Palladium.”
I snap my eyes to the article so fast I have to blink to clear Dante’s hotel name. It is exactly what Marco said.
So it’s real.
The picture is recent and of Dante.
My stomach twists so violently I might be sick. Anger and nausea churn until I can’t pick which is worse. I feel stupid. Exposed.
Was I the prologue of Dante’s steamy date?
I’ve never felt so used, and I dance naked for money.
War rages inside me, but I tuck it away when Camille stirs.
This is why I need to remember my place.
I’m nothing more than a pawn to the families of the Cosa Nostra.
Moving on will be easier now, though I see my anger shifting to hurt when I realize Dante’s actions have stolen the second-best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Camille isn’t my daughter, but I’ve grown closer to Gabriele the more time I spend with her. It’s twisted and sick to cut your teeth on parenting a child who has no relation to you whatsoever, but Camille has also benefited from our time together. I hope.
When Camille’s eyes drift to me, her nose crinkles when she spots the angst my influence in her life has rekindled. I swallow everything down. I fold the newspaper in half, burying both the photo and the jealousy, then jingle the pie to show Camille I got the exact one she suggested.
Her smile isn’t the biggest to date, but I’ll take any she’s willing to give.
We drive home in silence. Dante greets us in the underground garage. He’s all warmth and charm with Camille, but he barely glances at me as he helps carry groceries into the kitchen. The rare times I catch his gaze, he appears nervous, like he’s waiting for me to explode.
As I prepare dinner, he drifts over as he has every night the past week. He props his hip against the counter and chomps through a green bean I recently washed. His arms are casually folded, but the corded veins running through them broadcast his true composure. He’s tense.
“Need any help?”
“It’s fine.” I chop the vegetables with more force than necessary. “I’ve got this.”
“All right.” He wets his lips before straying his eyes to Camille, who is coloring at the dining table. Confident we don’t have any eavesdroppers, he continues his fishing expedition. “Are you okay? You seem a little… quiet.”
Hating that some men can’t own their lies, I fight the urge to drive my knife into his throat. “I’m cooking.”
“And you can’t smile while doing that?”
I shoot my eyes to him, then muster up the fake grin I give all my clients.
That’s clearly what he is, isn’t he?
A client.
That’s what all prostitutes call their johns when they pay for sexual favors.
A beat of silence follows my Harley Quinn smile, and then Dante tries again, but instead of skirting the truth, he edges it. “If this is about last night—”
“Last night?” I query, acting daft. “What happened last night?”
His eyes flicker as he digs through a muddy trench for the worst excuse in the book. “Nothing.”
Nothing? Ouch.
“I’m just saying if I did something to offend you, I’m sorry.” His apology sounds genuine, but I’ve heard many fake apologies in my life. “I’ve had a lot going on lately. My head isn’t screwed on straight.”
My knife pauses mid-slice when I realize I initiated the crossing of the boundaries he’d placed up all week. Rolling my clit while thinking about him isn’t coercion, but not many men are known for thinking with the heads above their shoulders. They prefer to use the one between their legs.
“You didn’t do anything to offend me.”
He mostly kept his hands to himself, so my scorn is my own to bear.
Dante shrugs before scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Okay…” Another stint of silence stretches before he realizes he threw out his line without bait. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“I’m good.”
Unease gurgles deep within me when he fails to see the white flag I’m attempting to wave. “Not just with dinner. With anything.” He scoots closer, drawing his daughter’s focus and spiking my heart rate. “You know you can ask me for anything, right? Tell me anything. I won’t judge you.”
Me? Why am I being put in the spotlight? I wasn’t the one who was inappropriate with a so-called employee, then remembered I had a Tinder date partway through the “act.” I’m glad he took their antics to a hotel, but it still doesn’t feel nice. No one likes being used.
My anger that I allowed myself to get into a situation like this augments into something ugly. It bubbles in my gut and threatens to spill over. Since its overflow won’t solely scald Dante, I untie my apron and slap it on the kitchen counter.
“I’m not feeling well,” I say, slicing through the tension with a lie. “I’m going to lie down.”
I don’t wait for Dante’s reaction. I would rather not see what expression he’s wearing, especially if it is guilt or remorse.
Knowing he regretted our time together would gut me.
When I enter my studio, the first thing my eyes land on are the three bundles of 10K bands I left on Dante’s desk this morning.
They shout what I’ve tried to deny all week.
I am his employee. That’s all I am to him.
Nothing more, nothing less. I’m someone he pays to take care of his daughter.
.. and occasionally mess around with when no one better is available.
The anger I’m barely containing boils over. It’s violent and final.
After grabbing my backpack, I snatch up the bundles, stuff them into the weathered material, then storm out before I can tell myself that this is a bad idea.
The air outside bites at my cheeks as I march toward the money transfer business I found last week. This payment is a week early, but I need to do this before I chicken out.
Before a cognitive thought can wade through the betrayal my heart believes it’s facing, I deposit thirty thousand dollars into Edoardo’s offshore account and curse myself to hell the instant the clerk announces the funds were accepted by the receiver.