Chapter 17 #2
Mick never really cared about my asthma. Sometimes he even made me feel like it was nothing but an inconvenience, something he had to tolerate. He’d roll his eyes when I wheezed, sigh when I reached for my inhaler, and acted like I was being dramatic instead of just trying to breathe.
The difference between him and Dominic is like stepping from a cold room into warmth, but I’m still wary. I won’t let his kindness lull me into a false sense of security. I did that once with Mick and look where it got me.
Dominic is part of the mob, and that’s something I can’t ignore. He roughs people up for a living—or possibly worse—and that scares the hell out of me.
I’m not looking for another relationship, and I’m not even sure you could call us friends, but the last thing I want to do is jump out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.
I’m done being that naive girl who ignores the danger just for the thrill. No more pretending that the rush is worth the risk, and no more convincing myself that I can handle what I clearly can’t. I’ve paid the price for that, and I’m not willing to do it again.
Dominic might be tempting, dangerous, even a little intoxicating, but I won’t let myself be swept away just because it feels good. Not this time.
I glance back down at the bottle in my hand. “I’m not even sure how much of this I can have.”
“Five to ten mills every four hours,” he replies.
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
He clears his throat. “I’ve had to take it a time or two when I haven’t had tablets at home.”
“Is this Peach’s?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“That’s sweet that you carry it with you when you’re out.”
My statement has his brows pinching together. “It’s not sweet,” he growls. “It’s sensible. I can’t predict when she’ll get a fever or hit her head or something.”
My eyes widen slightly. “Does she hit her head often?” I ask because that seems like a weird thing to say.
He looks away and scrubs his hand over the back of his neck.
“Once when she was learning how to walk, she fell and hit her head on the leg of the side table.” His eyes move back to me, and I see the conflict behind them.
“She’s got a little scar right here,” he says, pointing to his hairline just above his temple.
“I had to take her to the hospital. I still feel sick to the stomach every time I do her hair and see it. It was an accident, but I was terrified Mary was going to take her away from me.”
“Mary?”
“Lil’ Peach’s caseworker from DOCS.”
I just sit here, staring up at him as a sudden burst of warmth floods through me. This man is such a conundrum. The way he loves and cares for that little girl is something else.
Daylight doesn’t make me feel any less uncomfortable. If anything, it makes everything feel sharper, too bright, too real. I’m sitting at the dining table with Dominic, Peach, Lucia, and her husband, Romeo—whom I just met for the first time—eating breakfast.
He hasn’t exactly been rude to me, but he carries the same growly, intimidating vibe as Dominic, like they were born with permanent frowns and shoulders built to block out the sun.
It’s a stark contrast to the mobsters I witnessed at the Christening a few days ago. As a whole, they almost seemed normal … jovial even, but that may have had something to do with the endless supply of top-shelf alcohol flowing like water.
Sober, and in broad daylight, there’s a heaviness to them. A quiet kind of danger that settles into the room.
I’m trying hard not to fidget or look like the outsider sitting stiffly in a chair, surrounded by people who could make me disappear with a single phone call.
My eyes move over the elaborate spread before us. I’ve never seen a layout like this. The entire table is covered, and I don’t know where to look first. Do they eat like this daily? I’m used to Vegemite on toast, a bowl of cereal, or, on my days off, bacon and eggs. To me, this is overkill.
There’s a basket overflowing with warm cornetti, they’re golden, flaky layers dusted with sugar.
Next to them sits a platter of fresh fruit—figs are split open to show their ruby centres, sliced peaches, and glossy grapes still on the vine.
A small bowl holds ricotta drizzled with honey and another has thick, velvety yogurt sprinkled with toasted nuts.
Plates of cured meats are arranged like artwork, ribbons of prosciutto and curls of salami, beside chunks of sharp pecorino and soft, creamy mozzarella.
There’s a carafe of freshly squeezed blood orange juice, and the rich smell of espresso lingers in the air.
It’s all so beautiful, so abundant, that for a moment I forget to be anxious, but when Dominic clears his throat beside me, I remember exactly where I am.
“I got an update about the furniture this morning,” Lucia says as she piles up her plate with food. Her eyes move between Dominic and me as she speaks. Dominic grunts, which I’ve come to realise isn’t an unusual reply for him. “They said it will be delivered between eleven and midday.”
“We’ll head home after this,” Dominic replies casually, like that sentence isn’t full of landmines.
Furniture? Home?
“Am I missing something here?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Lucia glances at Dominic, then back at me. “Dominic bought you a new bedroom suite.”
My eyes snap to him. “You did?”
He nods, unfazed, and pops a piece of prosciutto into his mouth before picking up a slice of peach and handing it to Peach. The toddler bites into it happily.
I blink. Am I the only one who thinks it’s weird she’s eating her namesake?
“Can’t have you sleeping on the floor,” he grumbles.
“Floor?”
“In my spare room.”
I rear back in shock. “Your spare room?”
“I only have three bedrooms, and Lil’ Peach and I occupy the other two.”
I gasp as the realisation sinks in. “I can’t move in with you.”
“You’re not going back to that place,” he growls.
“I hadn’t planned to.”
“You’re not living on the street, Emily.”
When I realise everyone at the table has their eyes on me, heat floods my cheeks. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that either.”
“You can’t stay here,” he adds, still grumbling.
My blush deepens as I slide my hands under the table and rub my flattened palms down the front of my tights. “I know that,” I manage to squeak.
“Well, then it’s settled. You’re coming home with us until you can make other arrangements.”
“I-I could go to a women’s shelter.”
“Not happening,” he hisses, shoving an entire pastry into his mouth and dusting powdered sugar off his hands like that’s the end of the conversation.
Lucia reaches over and runs her hand gently down my arm. “You’re not going to win. These Italian men are stubborn. Trust me.” She tilts her head towards her husband. “You’ll be safer with Dom. What if that bastardo (Bastard) comes looking for you?”
“I … umm …”
“He’s a good man, Em. I wouldn’t let you be alone with him if he wasn’t.”
“Hey,” Dominic grumbles.
“You know it’s true,” she retorts, giving him a pointed look. “She only has to see how cute you are with Lil’ Peach to know that.”
“For Christ’s sake, woman, stop saying that. I’m not cute.”
Lucia beams, entirely unbothered, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile.