Chapter 29
Dante
Camille is brilliant onstage. There’s no other word for her grace. She moves with a quiet confidence that wasn’t there six months ago. Her body flows through choreography with skills that belie her age. The music lives in her, and dance is in her bones.
My mind flashes to Lucia’s expression at the Viper Room when stage lights illuminate Camille’s face as she walks onstage to curtsy to her adoring fans. She no longer shrinks from them. She shines.
Dance has pulled her out of her shell in a way only Lucia has been able to achieve. It’s given her a voice when she thought she had none and provided her with a place where she doesn’t have to speak to be understood.
I should be relieved she finished her routine without a hiccup. I am so proud I could burst, but the agitation burning in my chest refuses to slacken.
Something feels off.
Not with Camille. She’s safe and protected.
With the boss of all bosses arriving in town to discuss the rules I’ve been fighting to change the past six months, the entire front row is filled with the who’s who of Cosa Nostra royalty.
Even at a children’s recital, they came heavy.
No one would dare touch Camille here, let alone breathe in her direction.
Yet something still feels wrong.
It creeps under my skin, and no matter how often I tell myself I’m imagining things, I can’t shake the feeling that something bad is coming.
When the show ends in applause for the dancers, I make my way backstage, weaving through parents, performers, and the bouquets my brothers bought from every florist in town.
Camille spots me before I reach her. Her eyes light up and her hands flutter excitedly as she prepares to launch herself into my arms.
I catch her midair and pull her close. “I’m so proud of you, stellina.” She grips the collar of my jacket when I say the words she’s dying to hear. “Lucia will be as well. Uncle Elio recorded the entire show. She won’t miss a single second of your performance.”
My family knows what Lucia means to me, so I was beyond pissed when my father explicitly said she couldn’t attend Camille’s recital.
I understand we can’t be seen together, but canceling Camille’s invitation, which she’d worked on for hours, was a bitter pill to swallow.
Even more so since Lucia has barely spoken a word to me all week.
Nannies attend events for the children they take care of all the time.
It’s in the nanny handbook. My father simply didn’t believe my numerous claims that I could keep my hands to myself.
How could he when he struggles to last longer than twenty minutes before peppering his wife-to-be’s neck with kisses?
I wouldn’t face the same battle since Lucia now looks at me like I’m a stranger she regrets meeting.
I have time to win her back. There are still four days until her contract officially ends. It’ll be an uphill battle since she sent the money to Edoardo. To the big fish, that signals a relationship. It tells them she still wants to associate with Edoardo.
I know she’s trapped in something dangerous she can’t untangle herself from, but until she comes clean with me, I can’t protect her from it.
I can only watch from the sidelines and pray one day she’ll see that I’m not a remake of my competitors.
I’m better than them. Stronger. I can keep her and her secrets safe.
When Camille leans in, I ground myself in what feels right. No matter how murky things get, one loving glance from Camille clears the mud enough that I can see through the mess.
For the first time this evening, I finally feel content… Then I see her.
Anna is standing a few feet away, smiling as if she has the right to be near my daughter after everything she did.
Camille wasn’t sick last weekend because she spent the day before at various playgrounds with Lucia or because of anything she ate.
It was because she mistook one of Anna’s addictions as a rite of passage all “big girls” need to face.
When she witnessed Anna downing mouthwash as if it were juice, she sneakily did the same.
The alcohol content of mouthwash is higher than that of wine, so the effects were immediate and brutal. Camille suffered from severe nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea for seven hours straight, and I was at her side the entire time.
I’m grateful she eventually told me the truth, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me furious. A mother is meant to do everything in their power to protect their child.
Anna is too selfish to do that, and I’m done pretending otherwise.
I work my jaw side to side when Anna saunters our way.
I’m not happy, but causing a scene will only bring more trouble.
The judge overseeing our mediation isn’t easily fooled.
He doesn’t rely on computer-generated reports.
He takes personal accounts from the people undertaking the tests, so until I prove to him that I am not the man my failed drug test shows, I have to be on my best behavior.
Despite Anna’s mother’s claims, my “mishap” last week wasn’t self-induced. I know this, but without proof, the judge can only consider the footage of me walking into a five-star hotel alert and leaving in shambles.
All week, Carmela has been twisting the narrative to make me seem like the problem, even though I’m the only one not looking at Camille with dollar signs flashing before my eyes.
“Go get the gift Mama brought you, then come straight back,” I murmur to Camille, setting her down and jerking my head toward Anna. “It’s late. We need to get home.”
Shockingly, Camille hesitates. Even with Anna’s gift housing many of her favorite treats, she grips my trousers so hard that the fabric feels tight against my thigh and then leans in until she disappears behind my leg.
She doesn’t want to go to Anna.
She feels unsafe.
The thought alone boils my blood.
Before I can intervene in a manner unsuitable for a backstage area filled with minors, a reason for Camille’s sudden change of heart regarding her mother presents. The witch who’s given me hell all week during mediation appears like a ghost stalking the hallways of a morgue.
Carmela Moretti, widow of a powerful American don, has a reputation as vicious as a rabies-infected mutt. She glides through the backstage chaos, owning the space. Her eyes are cold, and her smile is thin and poisonous.
Camille shrinks further behind my thigh the more her grandmother approaches. She clutches my pants with white-knuckled fear, and every inch of her shakes.
I can’t mistake her fear, and neither can anyone else.
The discovery of my daughter’s taunter won’t end well for Carmela. I’m already plotting ways to kill her, and my wish may be granted sooner rather than later. The boss of all bosses hates bullies, and he’s witnessing every tiny shiver coursing through my daughter’s body.
After twisting to face Anna, I force my voice to come out steady, even though the protocols I wish I didn’t have to follow are a chain around my ribs, tightening every time I think about breaking it. “Come by my family’s compound Monday morning. We have matters to discuss.”
With a roll of her eyes, Carmela steps in front of her daughter, forcing herself back in the forefront of a situation that has nothing to do with her. “Unless it is to discuss transferring guardianship, we have nothing to talk about.”
I snort out a short and humorless laugh when Henry orders four of his men to my side. He knows how close I am to removing my gun and popping a bullet between Carmela’s brows, so he ordered his goons close enough to physically restrain me if I try.
My anger is so potent I doubt anything could stop me but my wish to ensure Lucia and Camille are far from danger before all hell breaks loose.
Killing a member of the Cosa Nostra without first getting permission is the fastest way to ignite a mafia war.
Why do you think Edoardo is still alive?
“Monday morning,” I reiterate after locking eyes with Anna over Carmela’s shoulder, my words minced through a stern jaw.
Carmela’s squinted gaze shoots to Henry, a man whose word can rewrite alliances with a single breath. “Say something. He’s poisoning my granddaughter against me and her mother. I demand you to intervene.”
Henry doesn’t glower at her callous words, nor does he blink. He simply studies her with a stillness that even seasoned leaders find unnerving.
I keep my eyes locked on the imp from my daughter’s nightmares, but I feel the moment Henry’s attention shifts to me.
The valve in my chest releases the pressured air zipping down my spine.
He knows what he saw as well as I do. He knows what Carmela is guilty of and the steps that need to be taken to punish her for her crimes.
He’s just as unsure as I am if Anna is unaware of the abuse or turning a blind eye.
Carmela’s head jerks up when Henry sides with me. “Monday morning.”
Her hearing won’t be held in a civilian court.
It’ll occur in a place where apologies and excuses don’t smooth things over.
This is the Court of Lineage, which handles family violations and legacy breaches that can ripple through generations.
Henry’s rulings are binding, and his punishments are stern.
Having him on my side is only second best to killing Carmela slowly and painfully.
With Henry’s tone leaving no room for argument, color drains from Carmela’s face before she pushes through the crowd, her strides brisk and shaky.
Only once she leaves does Henry return his focus to me. He doesn’t say anything, but his stare speaks volumes. As much as I hate to admit this, mafia law has protected Camille in the past, and it’ll continue to do so in the future.
Before I can nod, my phone buzzes. My brows knit when I notice who is calling. Marco only ever reaches out when trouble is brewing.
He’s babysitting Lucia tonight, so I answer his call immediately.
“What is it?”
“I lost sight of Lucia.” His wheezy breathes whistle down the line. It sounds like he’s running. “She must have noticed I was tracking her. She slipped down a side alley and then fucking vanished. I don’t know where she is.”
“Where?”
A brief stretch of silence presents, then: “On the Upper East Side.” He fights his subconscious for a few seconds before he adds, “She was carrying her backpack.”
I don’t need him to expand on his reply. Lucia only takes her backpack with her when she’s either running or up to mischief.
Fuck, I hope it’s the latter.
My expression must be extremely telling.
Concetta, my impending stepmother, breaks through the wings of the stage, covers Camille’s ears, which momentarily disrupts her from sorting through the lollipop bouquet Anna handed her before following her mother’s brisk exit, then says, “If you need to handle something, I can take Camille back to the compound. Your father is gathering the car now. She’ll be safe there.
” Her eyes stray in the direction Carmela just went.
“I don’t care who she thinks she is; she won’t get within an inch of Camille under my watch. ”
I love the protectiveness beaming out of her, but I still hesitate. Everything in me screams not to let Camille out of my sight, but she’s exhausted from her hour-long performance. She needs rest and quiet—two things I can’t give her while scouring the city for Lucia.
As I glance down at my daughter, who’s wrangling a grape-flavored sucker from its wrapper, the unease in my chest slackens. Something is wrong, and it’s coming fast, but I’m certain it’s on a direct collision course with Lucia, not Camille.
The intuition telling me this also announces that if I don’t act fast, I’ll run out of time.
Again, I have no choice. I must nod.
Camille isn’t in any danger right now.
I can’t offer the same guarantee for Lucia.
After brushing my lips against my daughter’s temple and snatching up her dance bag, I guide her and Concetta into one of the many SUVs idling outside.
“Take them straight to the compound,” I instruct the driver.
“Don’t stop anywhere.” I turn to face Concetta.
“I’ll tell my father to meet you there.”
Concetta nods in understanding before she slips in behind Camille and buckles her into her car seat. Then, just as fast, I twist to face my brothers and father milling at the back of the concert hall, forever on alert.
One look tells them everything they need to know. The woman I love is in danger, and protecting her is more vital to me than anything I could lose by prioritizing her safety.