Chapter 9 Angelica
ANGELICA
The dining room table is set with three places.
Dante sits at the head with Sofia on his right and me on his left.
I told him I'd eat with him alone, but it feels strange not having my little girl with me.
I told Marta to set the place and she frowned at me, but she didn't refuse my instruction, which felt like a small win.
But this arrangement, with him between me and Sofia, feels a little too much like we're playing house.
I watch him pour water into Sofia's glass and feel something shift in my chest.
He's too nice to her, too familiar.
I hate it.
It's like he's trying to sell me on the idea that he could be a father, and I refuse to be handled.
Though, I'm not sure how he could ever put on an act this good, which makes me wonder if he's being sincere.
This isn't the angry, brooding criminal I expected.
This is someone who seems genuinely happy to have a child at his table.
"And then Marta let me help her make cookies," Sofia says.
Her words tumble over each other in her excitement. "We made stars and trees and bells. I ate three of them."
"Three?" Dante raises an eyebrow. "That's a lot of cookies."
"They were small," Sofia insists shyly, and I see her cheeks tinge pink.
She's barely touched her dinner, which is probably due to the amount of sugar she ate earlier.
"I'm sure they were."
She grins at him and goes back to eating her pasta while I watch the exchange and feel my guard dropping.
I spent days telling myself that Dante is dangerous.
That he's violent and cold and incapable of being a real father.
But sitting here watching him interact with Sofia, I know I could be wrong.
I just still feel so hesitant about the idea.
He catches me staring and meets my gaze. "Is something wrong?"
"No," I say quickly. "Nothing's wrong." But something is very wrong. I just can't put it into words yet.
He studies my face for a moment, then returns his attention to Sofia.
She's asking him about Christmas now.
What he wants for presents.
What his favorite carol is.
Whether he believes in Santa Claus.
"I believe in what you believe in," he tells her.
"So you do believe?"
"If you say Santa is real, then he's real."
Sofia nods like this is the most logical answer in the world.
Then she launches into a detailed explanation of what she wants Santa to bring her this year—a dollhouse, art supplies, books, a toy kitchen like the one her friend has.
Dante listens to all of it without interrupting.
When she finishes, he says, "That's a good list."
"Do you think Santa will bring it all?"
"I think Santa does his best."
She seems satisfied with this answer, which is more than I can say about the answers I give.
I think she's given up on my being able to provide for her, but in Dante's expensive house, Sofia seems to have found her zeal and imagination again.
Like she believes his money grows on trees and she can have anything she wants.
I'm sure he’ll provide it.
We finish dinner and Marta appears in the doorway, smiling at Sofia.
"Ready for your bath, Piccola?"
Sofia looks at me. "Can I go with Marta?"
I hesitate to let her go.
I don't want to be alone with him and bath time is part of the routine I handle for her.
We stick to our schedule to help her feel at home and at peace.
I've never missed it once.
My chest tightens.
"Marta raised three children of her own. She can handle one bath," Dante says, touching my hand softly.
It's such a tender touch too, like he wants to reassure me, which again surprises me.
Who is this man sitting next to me?
I look at Marta.
She nods reassuringly. "I'll take good care of her."
Sofia slides out of her chair and runs to Marta, and they disappear down the hallway together.
I start to stand, but Dante speaks before I can leave.
"Stay for a drink."
I pause. "I should help with Sofia."
"Marta's a mother, Angelica. She knows what she's doing. Stay. Just for a few minutes."
I lower myself back into my chair, and Dante stands and walks to the sideboard where a bottle of wine sits open.
He pours two glasses and brings one to me, then sits back down and raises his glass.
"To unexpected reunions," he says.
I take a sip.
The wine is smooth and rich.
It warms my throat as it goes down.
Dante drinks and sets his glass on the table.
"Why didn't you come back?" he asks.
His question is enigmatic.
He's going somewhere I don't want to go. "What do you mean?" I ask, trying to ignore the gnawing sensation of anxiety in my gut.
"After you found out you were pregnant. Why didn't you come back and tell me?"
I stare at my wine glass.
"Because it was a one-night stand. I was grateful for your help, but I wasn't looking for a relationship. And later, when I needed help, I had no idea who you were or where to find you."
"You knew my name."
"I knew your first name. That's all. I didn't know how to reach you. I didn't even know you lived in Rome. I thought maybe you were visiting, a traveling gambler there for a good time."
Averting my eye so I don't have to make eye contact with him, I sip more wine and let the warmth flush my cheeks.
He nods slowly. "Are you shocked by who I am?"
I meet his gaze. "I'm terrified by who you are."
"Why?"
"Because you're part of the Mafia. You kill people, for fuck's sake. Raising my daughter in this world is the last thing I ever wanted."
He doesn't look offended.
He just takes another sip of wine and considers my words.
"I understand that."
"Do you?"
Instead of the angry outburst I expected, he’s calm and rational.
"Yes. I know what my world looks like from the outside. I know it's violent and dangerous. I know it's not the life most people would choose for their children."
"Then why do you want Sofia to be part of it?"
I lean forward and listen intently.
This is the man from years ago, the one who over drinks and soft music made me feel alive and treasured.
I've not seen him in as many years, and since I came here, he's not been anything but a brute.
I like this side of Dante.
"Because she already is part of it. My enemies know about her. The only way to keep her safe is to keep her close."
I drink more wine and let the warmth spread through my chest and soften the edges of my fear. "How long do we have to stay here?"
Resigning myself to his truths is hard, but he knows more about this world than I do.
I can’t fathom leaving his protection and going home, only to have something worse happen.
Alive and caged is good compared to free and dead.
"Until I eliminate the threat."
He rises and refills my glass without asking, and I get the sense that he's wanting to dive deeper with me, but I still feel walled in.
I might not be ready to run at the first sight of hope anymore, but I'm still not comfortable here.
We don’t know each other.
I slept with him because I was drunk and thrilled to be free of Antonelli Gerard's debts and prying eyes, and Dante was such a charming man.
But a one-night stand does not a relationship make.
"Why did you save me that night?" I ask him for the second time since coming here.
I didn't care for his first answer at all. "Six years ago in Trastevere. Why did you stop Mr. Gerard?"
Dante leans back in his chair.
His eyes don't leave mine. "Because the instant I saw you, I was hooked."
My breath catches. "What?"
"I walked onto the floor and saw Antonelli with his hands on you.
I saw the fear in your eyes. And I knew I couldn't walk away.
I had to get you out of there." He leans forward and his voice drops lower.
"You were beautiful and terrified and trying so hard to be brave.
I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to take you somewhere safe and hear your story. I wanted to make you feel protected."
My heart pounds against my ribs. "You didn't even know me."
"I knew enough. And after that night, after the wine and the conversation and everything that happened between us, I knew I didn't want you to leave."
"But you let me go…" I'm finding myself flustered, by the wine, by the conversation.
By the way he's looking at me like I'm the only woman on Earth.
"Because I thought it was the right thing to do. When you never came back, I forced myself to let it go. I knew how dangerous my world was. I thought you'd be safer away from me." He pauses. "I was wrong."
I sip more wine and fight the urge to fan myself.
The way he's staring at me is unnerving and arousing.
If only he weren't such a vile man, or dangerous.
I'd kill to have a man look at me like this under other conditions.
But Dante?
And knowing who he is… I have to fight my own urges.
"If I had it my way," he says, "you would never have left my bed, let alone Trastevere. You would've stayed with me. We'd be married by now."
"What?" My jaw drops and my eyes go wide.
"You heard me…" He sits back, sipping his wine as he studies my face.
I stare at him with a slack jaw and no words.
What he's saying is absurd.
We barely know each other.
We spent one night together six years ago.
But the way he looks at me makes my stomach flip.
"You're romanticizing a one-night stand," I say.
"Am I?" He stands and walks around the table then stops beside my chair and looks down at me. "Or am I telling you the truth?"
I set my wine glass down.
My hands are shaking. "What truth?"
"That I never forgot you. That I kept your earring because I wanted something to remember you by. That when you showed up at my door five days ago, it felt like fate giving me a second chance."
"A second chance at what?"
I swallow hard and try not to let those ice-blue eyes unnerve me.
"I want you back in my bed," he says.
He's so fucking close I can almost taste it. "I want you to stay there. I want you to never leave."
The heat in his words makes my skin flush.
The wine makes my head spin.
This is a terrible idea.
But he's looking at me like I'm the dessert he's craving.
My mouth is watering, my palms sweaty.
I blink rapidly.
"Dante," I whisper.