Chapter 15 Angelina
fifteen
Angelina
The morning routine has become a performance.
I stand at the bathroom counter, Cole's fake pill pack in my hand, and listen for his footsteps in the hallway. There. The soft tread on carpet, pausing near my open door. Not entering. Just... present.
Watching. Always watching. Dio, even his surveillance has surveillance.
I pop the pill from its foil slot. The sound is crisp in the quiet bathroom, deliberately audible. Then I raise my hand to my mouth, tip my head back, swallow with a sip of water from the cup I keep by the sink.
The pill is still in my hand.
His footsteps retreat toward the stairs.
I toss the fake pill in the toilet, flush it, and take a real one from the sample pack I've hidden behind Chesca's bubble bath. This one I actually swallow.
Two can play the surveillance game, bastardo.
My hand drifts to my stomach, flat, unchanged, and lingers there for a moment too long.
What would it even mean? Another baby? With him?
The thought should horrify me. It does, mostly. But there's something else underneath the horror, something I don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels dangerously close to what if.
Stop it. You're not pregnant. You're not going to be pregnant. This is a game, not a future.
I yank my hand away and go to get Chesca ready for her soccer game.
The morning sun warms my shoulders through my cardigan, and for exactly forty-three minutes, I let myself pretend this is normal.
Piedmont Recreation Park buzzes with weekend energy.
Kids in mismatched jerseys chasing a ball, parents clutching coffee cups and shouting encouragement that borders on aggressive.
Chesca's purple jersey stands out against the green grass, the number seven on her back slightly crooked from where I ironed it on wrong last season.
She doesn't care. She never cares about things like that.
Thank God for small mercies. At least one of us isn't a perfectionist disaster.
I scan the field without meaning to. Fourteen kids on Chesca's team, twelve on the opposing side, three coaches, two referees, forty-seven adults in the spectator area, give or take.
The habit is automatic now, counting bodies, noting exits, building a mental map I'll never need to reference in court but can't stop constructing anyway.
Somewhere out there, someone is deciding when I die. The flower sits in an evidence bag, but the threat walks free, faceless and patient, watching judges like me until we're not worth watching anymore.
Breathe, tesoro. You've survived worse. Probably.
Cole and Xander flank me on either side, positioned on the sideline like twin sentinels.
Cole at just over six feet, dark shirt stretched across his chest, the slight bulge of his concealed carry visible only if you know where to look.
I do. And Xander, built like the rugby player he probably was, with his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the field as his head swivels in constant scan.
Fantastic. Nothing says "normal suburban mom" like armed escorts at the eight-and-under league.
The single moms notice. A cluster of them huddle near the snack table, adjusting ponytails and smoothing lip gloss while they pretend to watch their kids.
One breaks away, a blonde in yoga pants so tight they might be painted on, and approaches Cole with the kind of determined smile usually reserved for closing real estate deals.
"Are you Francesca's father?"
Jealousy flares hot and immediate, causing me to tighten my grip on my iced coffee until condensation slicks between my fingers.
Where the hell did that come from?
"Security detail." The words leave me sharp and final before I can stop them.
Her face falls, but only for a second before she recalibrates. "Oh. Well, is he single?"
Cole doesn't even look at her. "No."
"Not even for coffee sometime?"
"I belong to someone."
His eyes don't move to me, but I feel them anyway.
I belong to someone.
My stomach flips. He's never said that to me, not out loud. Not in so many words. And hearing it now, delivered to a stranger like it's the most obvious fact in the world—
Cazzo. What is he doing to me?
The blonde retreats, looking vaguely offended. Good.
Wait. Good? Since when is 'good' the appropriate response to—
She doesn't even glance at Xander, which seems like an oversight. At six-three, shoulders like a linebacker, warm brown eyes that probably do very well for him when he's not wearing mirrored glasses at a children's soccer game, he's not exactly invisible.
Not that I'm noticing. I'm just observing. Professionally.
Xander turns to me and raises an eyebrow. I look away. He coughs and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Fantastic. The giant with the explosives expertise is laughing at me.
On the field, Chesca gets control of the ball, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in pure concentration. She dribbles past a defender who seems more interested in picking grass than playing defense, winds back her leg, and kicks.
The ball sails into the goal.
"GOAL!" I'm on my feet before I've moved. "That's my girl!"
Chesca's head whips toward us, face splitting into a grin, but not toward me.
Toward Cole.
He gives her a thumbs up, and something twists in my chest.
Both. It terrifies me and breaks my heart and it's definitely both.
When the first half ends, Chesca races over, grass stains already decorating her knees, cheeks flushed with exertion and joy.
"Cole! Did you see? Did you SEE?"
"I saw, Hime."
Hime. Japanese for princess. When did that start? When did my daughter get a Japanese nickname from my—from the man who—
Chesca throws her arms around his waist, completely unselfconscious, completely trusting, and Cole's hand comes to rest on her head for a moment, long enough for my throat to close.
I belong to someone.
Part of me wants to correct him, to be angry about the presumption, but Chesca pulls back chattering about the second half strategy and whether she'll score another goal, and the moment passes.
Cole listens like she's briefing him on a military operation.
Xander produces a juice box from somewhere.
The man came prepared for an eight-year-old's soccer needs.
My hand drifts to my father's medal, thumb running along the familiar edge of St. Christopher's face. The metal has gone warm against my skin.
Chesca runs back to her team. The breeze carries the smell of fresh-cut grass and someone's too-strong perfume from two chairs down.
Xander's posture changes. Subtle, but his hand goes to his earpiece.
Cole's attention snaps to him immediately. They communicate without words, some signal I can't read but recognize as significant.
I turn to look where Xander's focused, scanning the parking lot beyond the field. Too many people, parents and siblings and coaches all blending together. My fingers find the medal again.
"What is it?"
"Probably nothing." Cole's gaze sweeps the lot, never landing on me.
Probably nothing. Sure. Because armed men at a children's soccer game always react to 'probably nothing.'
The game ends. Chesca's team gathers for participation trophies, plastic gold figures they'll treasure for exactly two weeks before forgetting them entirely.
We start walking toward the parking lot. I'm calculating how many more of these games remain in the season, wondering if I'll still be alive to see them—
And then I see him.
Adrian.
Standing between a blue Honda and a silver SUV, watching.
My body stops before my brain catches up, everything narrowing to a tunnel with him at the center. That familiar posture, the way he holds himself like he owns every space he occupies. The crowd noise fades to static.
His cologne. Expensive and suffocating. I can smell it from here, or maybe I'm imagining it, maybe my body just remembers—
Move. MOVE.
I can't.
Then Adrian steps forward.
"Hello, Francesca."
His voice hits me before the rest of him does, smooth and polished, the same voice that used to whisper threats in Italian while smiling at dinner parties, that told me I was overreacting, that everything was always my fault and I was lucky he put up with me at all.
Nausea rolls through me. My hand flies to my throat before I catch myself and redirect to the medal, gripping hard enough for the edge to bite into my palm.
Chesca looks up at me, confused. "Mamma?"
Her voice breaks through the freeze.
I pivot, stepping between Chesca and Adrian, my hands finding her shoulders. Eight years of keeping her away from him, eight years of careful distance and legal maneuvering and sleepless nights, and he's standing ten feet from her at a soccer game like he has every right to be here.
Cole's already there, positioning himself between Adrian and me. The gear bag drops to the pavement with a soft thud.
"Hey munchkin." Xander's voice cuts through the frozen moment as his massive hands lift Chesca like she weighs nothing, scooping up the dropped gear bag in one smooth motion. "Let's go get ice cream."
"But Mamma—"
"Go with Xander, tesoro." My voice comes out thin and scraped. "Now."
Xander's already moving, carrying her toward his truck with long strides. She watches over his shoulder, her small face tight with confusion and the beginning of fear.
She knows. Children always know when something's wrong. Dio, please don't let her remember this.
Adrian's smile widens. That smile. I know that smile. I used to think it was charming, before I learned what lived underneath it.
"She looks just like you did. Same eyes."
He looked at her. He LOOKED at my daughter.
My coffee cup hits the pavement. I don't remember letting go.
"Walk. Away." Cole's voice drops to something low and promising violence.
Adrian spreads his hands in that diplomatic pose he used to use before saying something that would cut deep. All reasonableness and wounded innocence. "I'm just saying hello to my daughter. That's not a crime."