Chapter 18
VIOLET
Ispot the first stalker on Monday, parked across the street in a sleek, black SUV. Maybe the more inconspicuous cars were in the shop, because he sticks out like a goddamn sore thumb in my neighborhood.
I check him out while Patrick’s still sleeping, pretending I’m taking out the trash. He’s behind the wheel, reading a newspaper like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world what he’s actually doing.
I get angry when I see him. Who the hell does Gianni think he is, sending guys to spy on me? Then again, it’s not exactly a secret.
“I’ll be putting men on you,” he’d said the morning after I’d stayed over.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Men watching you, making sure you’re not in danger. You likely won’t even notice them.”
I’d wanted to protest, but I didn’t. I could tell by Gianni’s tone that it wasn’t up for discussion. But now that it’s actually happening, it’s a different story.
The guy’s there when I leave for work, and he's there when I come home. A different guy takes the night shift. He’s younger and leaner with a shaved head, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses even when it’s evening.
They’re supposed to make me feel better. And they do. I hate that they do, but it’s the truth.
I should feel violated, surveilled, controlled—all the things that claw at my chest when I remember what it felt like to be watched by a man who did it because he wanted to own me completely.
Part of me does bristle. The knot under my ribs tightens every time I clock the SUV in its usual spot. I’ve spent the last year preparing for just this situation, of strange men watching me, keeping tabs on me. And now it’s happening—but the men are supposedly on my side.
I feel sick and trapped and like an animal under glass.
Another part of me feels something I haven’t felt in months. It’s the part that checks the locks twice, takes the stairs, and Googles my psycho ex’s name every morning before coffee like it’s a normal morning routine thing everyone does.
And that feeling is relief.
Because as long as Gianni's men are out there, Lance can't get to us. Not without being seen, at least. And not without going through one of the most dangerous men in the city—a man who, through the strangest twists of fate imaginable, is on my side.
For now, that's enough.
The rest of the workweek goes by without incident. I’m seated at our tiny two-person kitchen table, and Patrick is on the ground playing with his dinosaurs. The usual Friday morning stuff.
"Dragon needs sneakers," he explains, not looking up. "Because of the floor."
"Still scary?"
"The floor is always scary, Mama. If it’s lava, that means it’s scary.”
“So, we need super sneakers then, right? Because regular sneakers would just melt.”
Patrick looks away, as if really considering the matter. “Yeah,” he says with a confirming nod. “Super sneakers.”
I laugh, taking another sip of my coffee.
The buzzer sounds and I slide out of my chair, making my way over and checking it in the careful manner I always do, as if it might be Lance down there, ready for his revenge.
But it isn’t Lance, it’s Gianni. He’s standing on my stoop in dark jeans and a charcoal henley, no suit jacket, and no tie.
The man looks like he just arrived fresh from a modeling shoot.
It's the most casual I've ever seen him, and honestly, it's worse than the suits. The suits I can compartmentalize—they’re what the CEO wears, the Camorra boss, the man who’s on a different level than me, lives in a totally different world.
But this makes him look ordinary in a way that simply doesn’t make sense.
I take a deep breath, and I buzz him in.
"Who's that?" Patrick asks, turning his attention away from the dinosaurs.
"A friend of Mama's."
"The tall man?”
"You remember him?"
"He didn't have a dragon." Patrick says, his tone adorably serious. "I told him to get one."
Gianni knocks. I open the door and he’s there, larger-than-life as always. We make eye contact and something moves between us that makes me feel happy and turned-on and a little frightened all at once.
Then he looks down. "Hey, buddy."
Patrick marches up to him, tilts his head back to take in the full height differential, and extends the stegosaurus. "I'm teaching him to wear shoes," he explains. "Mommy says he needs to get super sneakers for all the lava.
Gianni does something I don't expect—he crouches. He gets on one knee on my kitchen floor, eye level with a four-year-old, and takes the dinosaur with the sober gravity the situation of Dragon and his super sneakers requires.
"The problem," Gianni says, examining Dragon's stubby legs, "is that his feet aren't built for regular shoes. He needs custom ones. Super ones, like you said. But ones made specially for his feet.”
Patrick's eyes go supernova. "You can get special shoes just for his feet?"
"You can get custom anything, if you know the right people."
Patrick looks at me with an expression that clearly says Where has this man been all my life, and why have you been holding out on me?
Gianni taps his right shoe. “These were made just for me. And I bet they’re just what Dragon needs.”
Patrick goes from stunned to thrilled. “Can he get super sneakers now?” he asks, barely able to contain himself.
“The matter of super sneakers can be discussed at a time when we’re not almost running late, bug," I say. "Grab your backpack."
Patrick reclaims Dragon and sprints to his room. Gianni stands, straightens, and looks at me.
"Boss's orders," he says. "I'm taking you to work."
“Some warning would be nice.”
“You’ll get a warning next time. I promise.”
"And we're dropping Patrick at pre-school first."
"Then we're dropping Patrick at pre-school first."
We step out to Sunnyside in full morning swing.
The Dominican bakery has its doors propped open, the empanada smell tangling with fresh coffee. An old man is hosing down the sidewalk in front of the bodega, and two women push strollers side by side, talking over each other in rapid Spanish. The trees along the block are just starting to bloom.
Patrick walks between us, holding my hand and occasionally reaching up to grab at Gianni's. I watch, sensing that Gianni doesn’t quite know how to handle the moment. Finally, he sticks out his index finger and lets Patrick wrap his little hand around that. I can’t help but smile.
It almost feels like we’re some kind of weird, little family. I’m still feeling out Gianni, and I’ve got zero idea what he really thinks about me. Patrick, on the other hand, sees something in this man who might very well be a real-life killer.
We walk two blocks like that, each of us savoring the peace of the moment in our own ways, Patrick occasionally saying something to Dragon low enough that only he can hear it.
The pre-school is a converted brownstone with a hand-painted sign reading Sunshine Garden Learning Center. Small, a little scuffed around the edges, with a chain-link fence around the play yard and paper butterflies taped to the windows.
It's not the kind of place with a wait list or a brochure on cardstock, and not the sort of place where the city’s elite send their kids. But they have a sliding tuition scale and the teachers are both attentive and crazy about my little man.
Gianni scans it as we approach. I watch his eyes move, taking in the fence, the front entrance, the sight lines from the street, the narrow alley running along the east side of the building. He's scanning the perimeter, the access points, anything that could signal potential danger.
He doesn't say a word, and he doesn’t need to for me to know what he’s doing. I know he's filing every detail for later, and the fact that he's evaluating my son's pre-school for tactical weaknesses should probably alarm me more than it does.
At the gate, Patrick turns and hugs my legs, and I crouch and kiss his forehead. "Have a good day, bug. I'll see you tonight."
"Okay." He looks past me at Gianni, who's standing a few feet back with his hands in his pockets. Patrick chews his lip the way he does when he's working up to something. “Can Mr. Gianni walk me to school again some time?”
Gianni stills.
"We will, sweetheart," I say, stepping in before the silence stretches too long. "Mr. Gianni's got a lot of work stuff going on, so we'll find a good time, okay?"
"Okay." Patrick nods, easy and uncomplaining, the way he always handles disappointment. "Bye, Mr. Gianni."
"Bye, kid."
Patrick waves, turns, and charges through the gate with Dragon under his arm. A teacher catches him at the door, and he disappears inside without looking back.
Gianni watches him go but doesn’t say a word. I want desperately to know what’s going through his head in those moments. But I know better than to ask.
We walk back to the car in silence.
The Lexus pulls into traffic.
Something is coming. I can sense a shift in pressure in the air between us, something tightening, tension building. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and watch his jaw work beneath his cheek.
Whatever he’s going to say next, he won’t be able to unsay.
"The person who built your identity," he says, his eyes on the road. "I want to meet them."
"What?"
"Your file is a fabrication, Violet. Every document, every record, every reference.
Someone constructed it from the ground up, and whoever they are, they're skilled enough to pass federal-grade verification.
" His voice is controlled and precise. "I need to know who did it, and I need to know why.
I need to know why a woman with a false identity is working in my company, sitting in my car. "
"You told me not until I’m ready."
"It’s been a week. I've brought you into my home. I've put my resources on your security. I've—" He stops and his jaw tightens again. "I've let you in. Farther than I've let anyone in years. And I don't even know your real name."
The words land like a fist to the chest. Nothing about what he’s saying is untrue or unfair. He’s in the right, but I can’t give him what he wants.
"I can't," I say. "Not yet. You don't understand."
"Then help me understand."
"It's not that simple!"
"It is that simple. Either you trust me or you don't. Or perhaps, I can either trust you, or I can’t."
"That's not fair, Gianni."
"Fair has nothing to do with anything." He stops at a red light, then turns to look at me. His eyes are dark and hard and full of something worse than anger—doubt. "I need to know if you're real, Violet. Because right now, I don’t know if the woman I’m talking to even exists.”
“Of course I exist! I’m sitting right here!”
The light turns green. He faces forward and drives. Silence fills the car. I shift in my seat, nervously turning my attention to the passing city. I can’t even look at him.
“When we arrive at work, we’re going straight to my office,” he says finally. “We’re going to shut the door, and I’m going to cancel my morning meetings. And you’re going to tell me the truth.”
I swallow. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you’re done at Russo. You have until we get there to decide.”
I press my nails into my palms, stare out the window, and try to figure out how to tell a man who runs the Camorra that the person I'm running from… is worse.