Chapter 21
GRACE
My heart nearly explodes.
I never thought I would see it. I'm in a stupor as I walk toward it.
I run my fingers over the wicker basket of the bicycle. It's a dusty-rose pink, and it's everything my little eight-year-old heart desired.
I look at Dante. I don't know what to make of this man. I don't know how to compartmentalize my growing attachment to him.
"Are you trying to buy my love, Dante?" I ask.
"Is it working?" he replies.
"You wish." I smile up at him.
His eyes drop to my lips. He's looking at me like he's trying to memorize me. Sexual desire is one thing, but this is something else altogether.
"Do you want me to teach you how to ride it?" he asks.
"Yes, how else will I be able to plan my escape?" I say.
“Very cute,” he says.
"Are you mocking my escaping skills?" I say. "Because if there's one thing I'm good at, it's running from my problems. And you've been a big fucking problem from day one."
"And if there's one thing I'm good at, it's hunting. You can run to the other side of the world, but it won't make a difference. I will find you," he says.
I don't know what it says about me that I find his threat hot.
He taps the bicycle seat. His hand is so large that it covers the entire seat. I get those visions again—his hands closing over my breasts and digging into my hips as he feasted on me. I squeeze my thighs together.
"Did I leave a lasting impression, little bird?" he asks, seeing right through me once again.
I swat his hand away and sit on the bike.
"What now?" I ask.
"Now we ride," he says.
“Promise you won't let go?" I ask.
"Never," he says. "But you will have to venture outside your comfort zone.”
My heart is pounding against my rib cage now. Not because I'm scared, but because I genuinely never thought the dreams of my childhood would ever come true. I thought growing up meant that I had to bury everything I once used to dream about.
But I feel safe with Dante.
As he starts pushing me around his driveway, I know that he's a man who keeps his promises. I know he won’t let me fall.
A laugh escapes my lips.
"I think you got it," he says. "Can I let go?"
When I nod, he lets go of the bike.
I topple sideways for a moment but manage to steady myself. And then I'm doing it.
I'm riding my pink bicycle with the wicker basket. It's a simple thing, but it means so much to me.
There's wind in my hair and sunshine on my skin. I can't stop smiling.
I park beside the rose bushes and run back toward him. I wrap my arms around him and press my head against his torso.
"Thank you," I say. "This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."
He's surprised, but he hugs me back. “Does this mean you’re done being sassy with me?"
I pull away. "For now."
The light, bubbly feeling in my chest is back.
Against my better judgment, I'm starting to grow fond of this man.
"Let's get you some breakfast," he says, taking my hand and leading me toward the kitchen.
I watch him as he pulls out ingredients from the kitchen cabinets. He grabs a bowl and starts mixing the ingredients.
"French toast?" I ask.
"Cinnamon butter French toast," he corrects.
"My mother would have an aneurysm if she saw the amount of butter you just put in that bowl," I say.
“You weren’t allowed to have butter?” he asks.
"No butter, no chocolate, no pasta, no bread," I say. "We were only allowed to eat salads, sprouts, and tiny portions of meat. And for dinner, we were given an egg."
"A whole egg?" His eyes widen.
"Yeah, can you believe it?"
“I have an idea,” he says. “We should spend a whole day eating only her restricted food.”
"A whole day of bread, butter, and chocolate?" I ask.
"We could make a day of it," he says. "It would be fun."
I lean my hip against the counter and watch him make breakfast. I wasn't hungry before, but the smell of butter and cinnamon is irresistible. He stacks fluffy pieces of French toast on a plate.
"Would you like some coffee?" he asks.
I'm about to say no, but maybe it's time I try new things. I need to figure out who I am now that I'm no longer in my mother's shadow.
“Sure,” I say.
"I'm about to change your life," he says. "My French toast pairs perfectly with coffee."
He places a moka pot on the stove. Within seconds, the warm aroma of roasted coffee fills the air.
The conversation we had earlier today is still fresh in my head. Something he said had made me curious. While talking about Don Savastano, he said something very specific.
He knew the names of the two people who killed my parents.
It could be nothing, but he used the word “parents” instead of “family.” Now that I think about it, he never said that his sister was dead.
It makes me wonder if she’s still out there somewhere.
I want to ask him about it, but I've already asked him too much.
The only reason he probably shared anything with me is because he feels bad for me. He's just a good man in a wicked world. And for whatever reason, he feels empathetic toward me.
"Come on, princess," he says, bringing the plates to the breakfast table.
He pulls my chair out for me and then sits across from me.
"You're acting funny again," he says. "What's going on?”
"Nothing," I say.
"I won't let you eat my world-famous French toast until you tell me what it is," he says.
"Are you being nice to me because you feel bad for me?" I ask.
I feel silly saying the words out loud, but I know it's going to eat away at me until I get an answer.
"It's not that complicated, Grace," he says. "I like you. I don't make my world-famous French toast for just anybody."
"So it's not pity?" I ask.
"Don't get me wrong. I would love nothing more than to snap your mother's neck for the things she put you through, but that doesn't have anything to do with why I fancy you."
"You fancy me?" I ask, a slow smile spreading across my face.
"I fetched a diamond ring from the ocean for you," he says.
"You don't get credit for that. I know it was Enzo who got the ring," I say.
"You're the only woman I ever let into my home," he says. “You're also the only woman I ever made breakfast for."
The butterflies are back again. And this time, they're not contained to my stomach.
I don't know what we're doing.
We're playing house. We're acting like a normal couple, when that couldn't be further from the truth.
But maybe I don't have to over-analyze everything. I just need to enjoy the moment for what it is. Not everything is life and death.
The front door opens, and Enzo steps inside the house.
"Is that your world-famous French toast I smell?" he calls out.
"Yes, grab a plate and leave us alone," Dante says.
Enzo nods at me as he walks toward the kitchen. I smile back at him.
He returns with a cup of coffee and a stack of French toast.
"I have dreams about this breakfast sometimes," he says, taking it to the couch and turning on the TV. “I don’t know what he adds to the butter that makes it taste so good. The secret ingredient is probably cocaine.”
Dante gestures toward my plate. “Eat before Enzo devours everything.”
"I heard that," Enzo calls out.
"I wasn't whispering," Dante says.
I've never been more curious about a dish before. I cut a bite-sized chunk and place it inside my mouth.
"It's very good," I say, nodding in surprise. "I can tell why it's world famous."
Dante seems pleased that I like it. We eat in silence for a few minutes.
I reach for the coffee mug beside me.
"Your mother should receive the electric chair just for depriving you of coffee,” he says.
I'm smiling as I take a sip. He added a splash of milk, but there's no sugar in the drink. At first, it's all bitter, but the richness of the beverage goes straight to my head.
And he's right. It goes perfectly with the sweet breakfast.
"Would it hurt your feelings if I said it was better than your French toast?" I say.
"I would never recover," he says.
"It's almost as good, then," I say, placing the cup down and looking at the man before me.
He said that he fancies me.
My feelings are growing at an exponential rate. The light from the window hits his eyes, making them look like warm honey. I'm starting to get used to the slow mornings and this warm glow in my chest.
"There's some good news," he says. "It's about your sister Chloe."
My eyes widen. "Did you find her?"
"I contacted her husband,” he says. "She's safe."
My eldest sister, Chloe, is married to Max Montgomery. He's an American billionaire with family ties to one of Italy's three major mafia families.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
"Your mother lured your sisters to the auction, but she wasn't able to hurt them in any way," he says. "I spoke with them earlier this morning. Both of your sisters are safe.”
"Did you tell them about me?" I ask.
"Yes, I even invited them to the wedding," he says. "I gave them the wrong date, but it's the gesture that counts, right?"
"They know about the contract?" I ask.
"Nobody knows about the contract except for Enzo,” Dante says. “And that’s only because I trust him like a brother."
"Aww," Enzo calls out from the couch.
"Stop eavesdropping on our conversation," Dante snaps. And then he turns to me, his face serious. "Nobody can ever find out that it’s a temporary arrangement. You understand that, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. Of course.”
The easygoing banter from before is replaced by reality. This is what we are. It's just terms and conditions. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Fuck. Me," Enzo says from the couch.
Both of us turn to look at him. He's frozen as he stares at the news playing on the screen.
Dante stands abruptly and walks toward the TV, tension pulling across his shoulders. I walk in after him and look at the screen. Everything is in Italian, so I study the flashing images.
Helicopters. Flashing lights. And a large building that's been burned to the ground.
“He actually did it," Dante whispers.
"Who did what?" I glance between the two of them.
"This is going to change everything," Enzo says, exhaling slowly.
A man's face is shown on the screen. The photograph alone turns my blood into ice. I don't know him, but I fear him already.
He looks like something from another realm—icy-blue eyes and a long beard. There's a tint to his hair. It's a strange shade of black that looks almost...blue when the light hits it.
I place my hand on Dante's bicep. He turns to look at me.
"That's Don Savastano,” he tells me. "He escaped from prison."