Chapter 7 Angelica
ANGELICA
Isit on the couch and watch Sofia arrange ornaments on the lower branches of the tree again.
We've never had one and she seems obsessed with it, which is okay as long as she doesn’t break any.
She hums a Christmas carol under her breath, the same one that played on the radio in our apartment back in Naples.
That feels like a lifetime ago now.
Three days in this villa and everything has changed.
Dante left the room ten minutes ago to prepare for his outing overnight, but his presence still lingers.
The DNA results torment me, swirling around in my mind and tangling with everything I hate about this situation.
I always knew he was Sofia's father.
I knew it the moment I discovered I was pregnant.
But hearing him say it out loud makes me so angry.
He's not just the stranger who saved me anymore.
He's not just the man I slept with one night six years ago.
He's Sofia's father, and now he knows it, and my life as I knew it is over.
If what he says about his enemies is true, then maybe we really are safer here.
Maybe running would get us killed.
But how long can we stay?
How long until this villa stops being a refuge and becomes a permanent prison?
I built a whole life without him, raised Sofia on my own.
I never told her who her father was because I didn't know how to explain it.
I didn't even know what he did for a living until three days ago.
Now I know everything.
Dante Santonelli—crime boss, killer—the kind of man I spent six years trying to keep Sofia away from.
And she's playing with Christmas ornaments in his living room like this is normal.
Marta appears in the doorway and smiles at us.
"Dinner's ready when you are." Her tone is so gentle and affirming, I yield to her because anything soft at this point in time feels like comfort.
I stand and call to Sofia. "Come on, Amore. Time to eat."
Sofia runs over and takes my hand.
We follow Marta to the dining room where the table's already set.
Two place settings instead of a tray brought to the guest room.
Marta must've decided we are allowed to eat like normal people now, or maybe Dante is allowing this.
Either way, it seems more normal, and the more normal I make this for Sofia, the better.
The dining room is large and formal with high ceilings and an expensive chandelier.
The table could easily seat twelve, but only two chairs are pulled out.
Sofia climbs into one and I take the other beside her.
Marta brings plates of pasta with a simple tomato sauce, a side of roasted vegetables, and bread that smells fresh from the oven.
Sofia digs in immediately, but I pick at my food and try to ignore the weight in my stomach.
"Mama," Sofia says between bites, "who is Dante?"
I knew her question was coming and I don't really know how to answer her.
I set my fork down and look at her.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean… why are we staying in his house?"
I choose my words carefully.
"He's someone Mama used to know. He's helping us right now."
"Helping us with what?"
"With staying safe."
She considers this while chewing a piece of bread.
Then she asks, "What does he like?"
"I don't know, Tesoro. Why?"
"Because if we're staying here for Christmas, we should buy him a present. That's what you're supposed to do."
My chest tightens.
"We're not staying here for Christmas."
"But what if we are? We should still get him something. Do you think he likes cookies? I could make him cookies."
"Sofia, we're not staying."
"But what if we do?" Her voice rises slightly. "Will he buy me a present? I've been good. And he was nice to me."
I reach over and take her hand. "You’ve been very good. And yes, if we're still here for Christmas, we'll figure something out. But right now, let's just focus on eating dinner."
She nods and goes back to her pasta while I sit back and feel my heart tearing in two.
Sofia's so young, so innocent.
She doesn't understand what kind of man Dante is.
She doesn't understand the danger we're in or why we can't just go home.
All she sees is a tall man with a big house who helped her hang an ornament on a tree.
She wants to be kind to him.
She wants to give him cookies and buy him presents because that's what I taught her to do—be kind, be generous.
Think of others.
But letting Dante into her life isn't kindness.
It's a risk I’m not willing to take.
He's dangerous and violent.
He kills people.
I saw the blood on his shirt when he came back from the port.
I heard the guards talking about bodies and cleanup.
That's not the kind of father I want for my daughter.
We finish dinner and Marta clears the plates.
Sofia asks if she can have a bath, and I agree.
Anything to keep her occupied and away from thoughts of Dante and Christmas presents.
I take her upstairs to the guest room and into the bathroom.
The tub is large and deep with jets built into the sides.
I turn on the water and add some of the bubble bath I found under the sink while Sofia strips off her clothes and climbs in while the tub fills.
She giggles as the bubbles rise around her.
"This is the best bath ever," she says.
I sit on the edge of the tub and pour water over her hair to wet it.
"It is pretty nice." I smile at her honesty.
I would love to soak in a hot bath here with perfumed oils and a glass of wine.
Just the luxury of it seems so far out of reach in my normal life, and letting myself cut loose a little doesn’t seem like such a horrible thought.
"Can we get a bathtub like this at home?"
"Maybe someday."
She plays with the bubbles while I work shampoo through her hair, and she chatters about the Christmas tree and the ornaments and how she wants to put a star on top.
I listen and make appropriate sounds, but my mind is elsewhere.
On Dante, and his power and money, and how easily he paid my gambling debts years ago.
This place is massive, probably cost a bomb, and I have no way of giving Sofia even close to similar of a life.
When her hair is rinsed, I stand and walk into the bedroom to lay out her pajamas.
I pull a clean pair from the dresser and set them on the bed.
Then I hear footsteps in the hallway.
The door opens and Dante walks in.
I turn and face him.
"What are you doing here?"
"I want to help with the bedtime routine," he says.
"She doesn't need your help."
"She's my daughter," he says quietly so she can’t hear, then louder, "I have a right to be part of her life."
"You have no rights," I snap. "You didn't earn them. You weren't there when she was born. You didn't stay up all night when she had colic. You didn't teach her how to walk or read or tie her shoes. You're a stranger to her."
His jaw tightens. "That's your fault, not mine."
"My fault? You think I should've tracked down the dangerous crime boss who saved me one night and told him I was pregnant with his child? You think that would've ended well for me?"
"I would've protected you."
"Like you're protecting us now? By locking us in your house and posting guards outside the door?"
I'm still livid about it, still finding reasons to be angry with him, but he's done nothing wrong, and now I'm starting to feel bad about that.
He takes a step closer.
His voice is calm but hard. "I'm doing what's necessary to keep you alive. Both of you. If you can't see that, then you're more naive than I thought."
"I'm not naive. I'm realistic," I hiss, "and the reality is that my daughter is better off without you."
"Is she?" He crosses his arms. "Is she better off growing up without a father? Without knowing where she came from?"
"She's better off not being surrounded by criminals."
His expression darkens.
For a moment, I think he's going to yell.
But when he speaks, his voice is low and controlled.
"I am what I am," he says. "And you knew what I was the night you slept with me. You might not have known my exact occupation, but you knew I was dangerous. You knew I had power. And you still chose to fuck me while you bled on my sheets."
I feel contempt rising, gritting my teeth and thinking rationally before I respond.
"I was desperate and scared and you made me feel safe. That doesn't mean I wanted this life for my daughter."
"Our daughter."
"No. My daughter. I raised her. I fed her. I kept her alive. You did nothing."
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Because you didn't give me the chance."
"Because you would've ruined her life."
He stares at me for a long moment.
Then he turns and walks out without another word.
The door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the frame and I stand frozen in the middle of the room.
My heart pounds and my hands shake.
I hear Sofia call from the bathroom.
"Mama? I'm ready to get out."
I take a deep breath and force myself to move.
I walk back into the bathroom and help Sofia out of the tub.
I wrap her in a towel and dry her off, then help her into her pajamas.
She chatters about the bubbles and how much fun the bath was, but I barely hear her.
All I can think about is the look on Dante's face when I called him a criminal.
The way his expression shifted from anger to pain.
He felt hurt by my words.
I didn't expect that.
I expected rage.
I expected threats.
I didn’t expect him to look wounded.
We walk back into the bedroom and Sofia climbs under the covers.
I tuck her in and kiss her forehead.
"Goodnight, Amore."
"Goodnight, Mama."
She closes her eyes and within minutes, she's snuggling deeper with soft, rhythmic breathing against my side while I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her sleep.
My mind replays the conversation with Dante over and over.
He wants to be part of Sofia's life, to help with bedtime routines and hang ornaments on trees and be the kind of father he never had.
I can see it in the way he looks at her and hear it in his voice when he talks about her.
But wanting something doesn't make it safe or erase the blood on his hands or the danger that follows him everywhere he goes.
I feel guilty and confused—like I’m drowning in choices that all lead to the same dark place.
But most of all, I feel scared.
Scared that staying here will change Sofia but that leaving will get us killed.
No matter what I do, I've already lost control of our lives.
And I don't know how to get it back.