Chapter 19
MARA
Isit on the couch, trying not to chew the inside of my cheek.
Sylvie is wearing a hoodie over her ballet gear, constantly tugging at her sleeves.
She looks nervous, constantly looking around as if her dad is going to appear from thin air.
Livia sits in a pretty dress, hair styled. She gives me a somber look.
“Do we have to leave soon?” Sylvie asks, tugging at her sleeves again.
I noticed her doing that when I first arrived, saw it as a nervous gesture, then felt proud when she started doing it less over the last few weeks. Now, it’s back in full force.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Ten minutes.”
“Okay.” She twists to look out the front window.
“I just need to use the bathroom.”
I step into the hall and take my cell from my handbag and call Ettore. It must be on Do Not Disturb, because it goes straight to voicemail. I text him instead.
Mara: Are we meeting you there or are you joining us? We need to leave soon.
I go to the bathroom and do my business. Ettore replies when I’m on my way back.
Ettore: Business has called. I’ll have to meet you there.
Mara: Ettore.
Ettore: Mara, do you think I planned on one of my men getting shitfaced drunk and beating up his wife? What do you want me to tell the poor woman, Mara? I’ll be there. I’ll meet you there.
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing slowly.
Mara: What does business mean in this context, putting a bullet in this guy’s head?
Ettore: I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. That’s a ludicrous thing to say.
A pause between messages.
Ettore: Is Sylvie excited?
Mara: She’d be more excited if you were here with her.
I pocket my phone, so angry I could scream. He promised her he’d be there. I know why he said that was a ludicrous thing to say. He can’t admit anything over text. But there’s a possibility he’s dishing out some of the hell we talked about—to keep the slice of heaven viable.
Walking into the front room, I smile tightly.
“Well?” Livia asks.
“I just used the bathroom,” I reply.
“Oh. We thought you might’ve spoken to him. I can’t get through.”
I shake my head, trying to think of the best route to take. Approaching Sylvie, I kneel and gently take her hand. “I think you should focus on giving your best possible performance, Sylvie. Just think about being the best dancer you can possibly be.”
“But I want Daddy to see,” she murmurs.
“I really hope he’ll be there,” I say. “He told me earlier that if he can’t meet us here, he’ll do his best to meet us there.”
“So he will be there?” she asks hopefully.
I can’t promise her that.
“I hope so,” I reply. “But if he isn’t, it’s because something really, really important has come up.”
She blinks. “More important than me?”
Livia makes a quiet choking noise. I swallow a lump of emotion.
“No, angel, no,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. Grownups are complicated sometimes.”
She huffs and folds her arms. “Fine, let’s just go.”
“You’ve worked so hard. You’re going to be amazing.”
“And I’m going to record the whole thing,” Livia says, holding up her phone.
“Blah blah blah,” Sylvie snaps. “That’s all I hear. Blah blah blah blah.”
“Do you still want to go?” I ask softly.
“I don’t want to let down the troupe,” she says. “So yes, let’s go.”
I silently note that she didn’t say yes, she wants to go. She’s such a sweet girl. Putting her friends before herself.
“I’m proud of you,” I say.
“And he probably will meet us there,” Livia adds.
I glare at her without meaning to. Livia’s face hardens, more like the version of the woman I met when I first arrived here. She doesn’t understand how much this can hurt a child.
Standing, I take out my phone and shoot off a quick text.
Mara: We’re going to have to meet you here.
His reply comes instantly.
Ettore: I’ll be there. I promise. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.
Yeah, we’ll see…
Livia and I sit in the front row with an empty seat between us.
It’s painfully obvious that Ettore hasn’t and isn’t going to show up.
Sylvie and her troupe prance onto the stage, and Sylvie glances at the empty chair with a look of profound sadness on her face.
Then she pushes the sadness away and focuses on her performance.
The masking is almost as painful as the hurt. I know what that feels like. She’s going to bury all this rage and heartache. She’s going to internalize it.
Every time Sylvie exits and then enters the stage – giving a flawless performance each time – she glances at the empty seat. I plaster a smile to my face, but I’m seething inside. He promised her. He swore he’d be here. This is unacceptable.
I’m probably overstepping my boundaries as a nanny, even thinking this, but screw it. What right does he have? This little girl spent so many hours working on this. And all so that her daddy could see her perform.
At the end of the show, when we’re all standing and clapping, Sylvie’s sad face returns. She looks down at me with a shaky smile. I give her two big enthusiastic thumbs-ups, but it’s not even close to being a replacement for her father.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as Sylvie exits the stage. It’s Ettore.
Ettore: That was incredible. I’m so proud of her.
Mara: Are you here?
Ettore: I’m in the booth.
I turn and look through the darkness. Sure enough, there he is, a huge silhouette in the semidarkness. I turn to Livia. “Can you please go and get Sylvie and meet us at the car?”
She follows my gaze, eyebrows raised in confusion. “Sure, but remember, you don’t know everything.”
“I know he broke that little girl’s heart.”
Livia steps close, lowering her voice to a hiss. “One wrong move on his part can have drastic consequences. We’re not talking about margins on a stock portfolio or falling behind on a construction project.”
“Life or death, is that what you’re saying?”
She scowls. “He’s your boss. If nothing else will calm you down, that should.”
“Who said I wasn’t calm?” I snap, striding down the aisles, pushing past people, barely able to say excuse me without my voice trembling.
I find the staircase to the booth. Ettore is coming down the stairs as I’m walking up.
I march right up to him and go to point my finger in his face.
He catches my wrist like it’s nothing. When I surge against him, he crowds me in like he thinks I’m trying to attack him.
The physical heat burns between us as usual.
“Easy, Mara.”
“What was that?” I demand.
“You need to take a breath.”
“She thought you’d abandoned her. Were you there the entire time?”
“I got here five minutes late. Sped through the city like the devil was chasing me. I figured it’d be better not to disturb everyone. I saw the whole thing, got it on video too so I can show her.”
I’m breathing hard. “Do you have any idea how upset she was? Did you see the look on her face?”
“She was smiling the whole time.”
I try to pull, still seething. “Let me go,” I snap.
“Are you going to relax?”
“I’m not going to hit you. I don’t want to touch you.”
He smirks. “Sure you don’t,” he says sarcastically.
I take a step back, breathing hard. Even that closeness, in this context, does unfair things to me. And to him. We share a long, heated look, as all our close calls flash across our minds. I know he’s thinking it too. It’s pure hunger, sizzling in the air.
“She wasn’t smiling the whole time,” I say. “She was forcing a smile onto her face, but she glanced at your empty chair multiple times. She looked like she was going to cry.”
“I’ll explain to her,” he says. “She’ll be happy when she sees the video.”
“You promised her you’d be there.”
“And I was here.”
“But—”
“Are you sure this is about her?”
I aim my finger at him. “You shut your mouth right now, Ettore.”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. His other hand goes to my hips. I grip onto his shirt, then somehow, we’re kissing. I don’t even know who leans in first. It’s impossible and ridiculous. In the midst of all this tension, we’re still magnetized to each other.
His hand glides around to my ass. I push against his chest, creating some distance from him. “What are you doing? We’re at your daughter’s ballet school.”
He swallows, pulls back, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I know—you’re right.”
“Get some self-control.”
“Says you,” he groans fiercely. “Let’s go.” He nods at the stairs. “I want to tell Sylvie what a good job she did.”
“After you,” I say. “I’m afraid you’ll pounce on me again.”
He laughs darkly. “Afraid, sure,” he says, with that knowing sarcasm. “No, after you. I enjoy the view too much to go first.”
I roll my eyes, but he can tell how much this gets to me. I walk ahead of him, feeling his gaze burning into me. Part of me wants to ask what he did to the man who attacked his wife. Did he kill him? Fine him? Beat him up?
But another part, the coward in me, knows better.