Chapter 13 Angelica
ANGELICA
St Lucia's Day feels different this year, as I knew it would.
I stand at the counter with Marta and watch her measure out flour and sugar for saffron buns.
The tradition even feels strange this year.
We should be in Naples lighting candles in the window and walking through the streets to see the processions.
Instead, we’re here in Dante's villa, making buns in a kitchen that still doesn’t feel like mine.
It never will.
It's stained with too much tension and fear.
Sofia sits at the table arranging tea lights on a small tray.
She hums a carol while she works, completely absorbed in making sure each candle sits perfectly straight.
Marta smiles at her and adds saffron threads to the bowl of dough.
"Your daughter has a good eye for detail," Marta says to me.
"She gets that from her grandmother," I reply. "My mother was the same way."
"Was?"
"She passed away when I was nineteen."
Marta's expression softens. "I'm sorry to hear that, dear."
I nod and return my attention to the dough.
Marta shows me how to knead it properly, folding and pressing until the texture is smooth and elastic.
The work is soothing.
The repetitive motion gives my hands something to do while my mind wanders.
I think about Dante's words from yesterday.
The possessiveness in his voice when he made me tell him I’m his made something inside me come alive and hope again.
Never has a man ever laid such a firm claim to me or my heart, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.
It's a strange mixture of safety and fear.
The door to the kitchen opens and Dante walks in carrying two small boxes wrapped in gold paper.
Sofia looks up and her face lights up.
I wasn't expecting this any more than she was, and she seems thrilled to see him.
"What's that?" she asks.
"Gifts for St. Lucia's Day," Dante says.
He walks to the table and sets the boxes down. "One for you and one for your mother."
He meets my gaze, and I feel heat creeping into my cheeks. St. Lucia's gifts are for children, not adults.
I don't know what he was thinking.
Sofia's eyes go wide. "Really?"
"Really. Open yours first."
She tears into the paper with enthusiasm and squeals when she has the inner box exposed.
Inside the box is a small porcelain doll with dark hair and a blue dress.
Sofia gasps and lifts it carefully from the tissue paper.
It's too expensive for a child her age, and I could scold him for buying something so lavish for a child who’ll break it in less than a week, but the look on her face is priceless.
"She's beautiful," Sofia whispers.
"I thought you might like her," Dante says, tousling her hair.
Sofia throws her arms around his waist and hugs him tight.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
He hesitates for a moment, then wraps his arms around her and holds her close.
The gesture's awkward and unpracticed, like he's not sure how to receive affection from a child. But he doesn’t pull away.
He just stands there and lets her hug him.
When Sofia finally releases him, she runs to show Marta the doll.
Dante turns to me and picks up the second box.
"This one is for you," he says.
"Gifts are for children, Dante. It's not necessary," I tell him, pushing it away.
After seeing what he got for her, I don't know if I want to know what's in that box for me.
"Just open it," he orders with a smirk, and I sigh.
I wipe my hands on a towel and take the box from him.
The wrapping is simple but elegant.
I open it carefully and find a bag of fresh coffee beans inside.
The label indicates they're from a specialty roaster in Milan and it looks every bit as expensive.
This is the sort of gourmet stuff I could never afford on my own.
"You mentioned you like coffee," he says, and his eyes sparkle with affection. "I thought you might appreciate something better than what we have here."
I look up at him in wonder and shake my head.
His expression is guarded, like he's waiting for me to reject the gift.
But I don’t reject it or him.
I hold the bag in my hands and feel something shift between us as the air charges with electric chemistry.
Not only was it thoughtful but it was generous, like he wants to pamper me, and I can't really refuse a man who wants to do that.
"Thank you," I say. The words come out as almost a whisper. "This is very thoughtful."
"You're welcome."
We stand there for a moment without speaking, and the way he holds my gaze makes me melt.
I feel like I'm being sucked into his orbit and this time, it's not about sex or how his body attracts me.
It's like I'm sensing his heart under all the sludge I hate.
Then Sofia runs back over and tugs on Dante's hand.
"Will you help me name my doll?" she asks.
"Of course."
He's torn away from the moment, but he glances over his shoulder at me a few times as she tugs him away, and I smile at the sight.
They walk to the table together and sit down.
Sofia chatters about possible names while Dante listens and offers suggestions.
I watch them and feel my walls cracking just a little bit more.
He's genuinely trying to be a father to her, and it's working.
Sofia is falling in love with him, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I don't even know if I want to anymore.
Marta and I finish making the saffron buns and put them in the oven to bake.
The kitchen fills with the smells of butter and saffron.
Sofia insists on lighting the candles on her tray once the buns are done.
We gather around the table and sing a traditional song while the candles flicker.
It feels like a real family moment.
It feels like something we could do every year if we stayed.
That's a little scary to me.
By evening, Sofia is exhausted from the excitement of the day.
I take her upstairs to get ready for bed.
She brushes her teeth and changes into her pajamas, then climbs under the covers with her new doll tucked beside her.
But her face is screwed up into a pout as she stares at the doorway where I’ve left the door ajar.
"What is it, Piccola?" I ask her, smoothing away the crevices in her forehead with my thumb.
"Can Dante read me a story tonight?" she asks.
I hesitate. "He might be busy."
"Please, Mama? He said he's my father. I think he can read to me."
Her eyes are saucers as she stares up at me in a pout, and I can't possibly refuse her.
I don’t want to say yes.
I don’t want to give Sofia another reason to get attached to him.
But the look on her face is so hopeful that I can't bring myself to refuse.
"I'll ask him," I say.
I walk downstairs and find Dante in his den.
He's on the phone speaking in low tones.
When he sees me in the doorway, he ends the call and sets the phone down.
"Sofia wants you to read her a bedtime story," I tell him, which only makes me feel like he'll gloat about it.
I kicked him out only a few nights ago, it seems, and now I'm the one inviting him back.
He stands immediately but he doesn’t gloat at all.
In fact, he seems more excited to be with her than to prove to me that he has a spot in her routine now. "I'll go now."
We walk upstairs together, and Sofia's waiting in bed with a book already picked out.
It’s the same Italian Christmas folk story he read to her before, but this time of year, there aren't many books she chooses otherwise.
He sits on the edge of the bed and opens the book.
Sofia scoots closer to him and leans against his side.
I stand in the doorway and watch them.
There’s something endearing about watching a Mob boss be so gentle and tender with a little girl.
I had him all wrong.
Dante isn't just a brute.
There's a part of him that's just as nurturing as every good father in this world.
By the time he's done with the story, she's already almost sleeping.
Her eyes are heavy.
She's kissed the doll at least five times, and she's yawning every few minutes.
But when she speaks to him, it breaks my heart.
"Will you stay every night?" she asks in a drowsy voice.
Dante looks at me, and I can see the conflict on his face.
He wants to say yes.
I can tell he wants to promise her that he'll always be here.
But he doesn’t make promises he can't keep.
"I'll be here as often as I can," he says.
"Good," Sofia murmurs. "I like it when you're here."
She closes her eyes and falls asleep within seconds.
Dante stands and walks quietly to the door and we step into the hallway together, closing Sofia's door behind us.
"She's getting too attached to you," I say quietly.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I don’t know anymore," I admit, and I'm feeling my edges going soft around him because the way he makes me feel is so alluring, I can't possibly deny it anymore.
I like being around him.
I like the way he makes me feel, the way he cares about me.
And I love the way he's so tender with my little girl.
It's not at all what I feared from him.
He opens his mouth to respond, but his phone rings.
He pulls it from his pocket and looks at the screen, and his expression darkens.
"I need to take this," he says.
He walks down the hallway to his den and closes the door.
And he doesn't know it, but I follow behind him and stand outside that door and listen.
His voice is muffled, but I can make out enough to understand the conversation.
Antonelli Gerard's name comes up multiple times.
The port raid.
Increased attacks on shipments.
The deadline with the Turkish supplier growing closer.
The words chill me.
It's worse than I thought.
Dante's not just fighting to protect his territory.
He's fighting to keep his entire organization from collapsing.
And we’re caught in the middle of it.
When the call ends, I push open the door and walk into his den.
He stands at the window with his back to me.
His shoulders are tense.
"I heard your conversation," I blurt out, and I'm feeling afraid again.
My insides are warring against each other, the desire to feel wanted and loved battling the fear of his entire world.
He turns around. "You shouldn't eavesdrop."
"I wasn't eavesdropping. You were loud enough that I couldn't help but hear."
"What do you want me to say?" This man, the one staring at me now, isn't the same one as the man who just read bedtime stories to a five-year-old.
"I want you to tell me the truth. How bad is it?"
He runs a hand through his hair.
"It's bad. Gerard is pushing harder every day. He's attacking my shipments and turning my suppliers against me. If I don't eliminate him soon, everything falls apart."
"And what happens to us when everything falls apart?"
"That's not going to happen," he says firmly, and as much as I want to believe him, I don't.
I've learned not to trust a man who keeps secrets.
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can," he growls, and I swallow back the anger rising in my chest.
I shake my head.
"You need to back off from Sofia. You need to stop getting so attached to her."
His expression hardens. "She's my daughter."
"And she's my daughter too. I've been raising her for almost six years on my own. I know what's best for her."
"You're just scared that you're going to lose control."
"I'm scared she's going to get hurt when we have to leave and that she's going to ask about you and wonder why her father isn't there. I'm scared that this attachment you're building is going to destroy her."
Dante strides over to me, and I try backing away, but he grabs my arms and pulls me closer, then cups both of my cheeks and stares into my eyes.
At this distance, it's hard not to admire how handsome he is, but the fear still coursing through me at the idea that this war will blow up and my daughter will be hurt ruins it.
"Angelica, I am going to handle this, and I'm going to make sure you're safe. You don't have to fear."
"Stop," I tell him, pushing at his chest.
Tears are welling up and I don't know if I can stop them.
"No, I'm giving you my word as a man, one who cares about you, that I won't let anyone touch a hair on your heads."
He's so insistent, I might just cave in and break down right here in front of him.
"Dante, please stop!" I say louder this time, but he won't let go even though I push with all my strength.
"Why?" he asks vehemently, and I can't stop the words from bubbling out.
"Because I can't afford to need you…"
He finally lets me go, and I turn and rush out, slipping back into the room with Sofia and shutting the door quietly.
I stand there and lean on the door weeping, wondering how I could let my guard come down so easily around him.
It's true that darkness cannot exist without light's absence, and that light would never be seen or recognized without the presence of dark, but this isn't what they meant.
Dear God, please tell me this isn't what they meant.