Chapter 19 #2
She stared at me for a long time, like a rabbit cornered by a predator, every hair standing on end. Then something more complicated crossed her face.
But she turned away quickly. I didn't catch it in time.
I stood by the car, watching her figure disappear at the parking lot exit. She walked fast, like she was fleeing.
As the car left the lot, Juliet woke in the back seat. She rubbed her eyes, looked out the window, realized we were already on the road, and shot up from her seat.
"Where's Vivi?"
"She left."
"How could she leave?" Juliet's voice trembled with tears. "I didn't say goodbye."
"She'll come next week."
"Really?"
"Really."
Juliet quieted, then leaned back in her seat, hugging her rabbit to her chest, and started talking. She talked about everything, from the carousel to the flying elephants, to that blue fish, to how Olivia's embrace felt.
"When Vivi held me, it was different from Daddy," she said. "Like the garden in the afternoon, the sun warm on your skin, warm and sweet-smelling."
"Is that so."
"Yeah." Juliet buried her face in her rabbit and took a deep breath. "I wish I could smell it every day."
I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
"Daddy," Juliet suddenly said, "you really like Vivi, don't you?"
I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you kept looking at her today."
My fingers tightened on the wheel.
Juliet's tone was serious, like an adult who'd discovered some incredible secret. "When you look at her, it's different from when you look at other people."
"How different?"
"When you look at others, you're like this." She pulled her face tight in a very serious expression, then changed it, corners of her mouth lifting, eyes crinkling. "When you look at Vivi, you're like this."
I choked.
"So," Juliet leaned forward, using a negotiating tone, "marry Vivi, Daddy. Then Vivi can stay with us forever."
"Juliet!"
"I know, you're going to say I'm the one who wants her to stay," she interrupted, using a tone too mature for a six-year-old. "But you're happy too."
I froze.
"You smiled so many times today," she said, holding up her fingers to count. "Way more than usual."
Her fingers showed about two centimeters.
"Did I?"
"Yes!" She nodded hard. "I counted."
I didn't speak. The car crossed the Manhattan Bridge, sunset shining from the opposite side, dyeing the whole river orange-red.
"Daddy," Juliet's voice came from behind, much softer now, "will Vivi always stay with us?"
I was silent for a long time.
"Yes," I said.
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She hummed acknowledgment, buried her face in her rabbit, and said nothing more.
Memories flooded back like a tide.
That night I'd drunk a lot. When I pushed open her door, she lay in bed, glanced at me in the darkness like looking at a wall.
I couldn't stand that look. So I forced her. Her nails digging into my back, her biting her lip to keep silent, her tears sliding from the corners of her eyes into her hair—these things carved into my brain like knives. Five years, and they'd never faded.
My arrogance and coldness drove her away.
I pushed her far away, using family rules, using Bianca's presence, using my silence and indifference. I told myself it was for her own good, for the family.
So she left, carrying all the wounds I'd given her.
Maybe it would be best if I didn't appear. Maybe I should let her quietly finish these few months of ballet teaching, then quietly leave, return to the new life she'd barely built. Juliet needed a mother, I needed a wife, but she didn't need us.
These thoughts spun through my head countless times. I almost convinced myself.
But I couldn't do it.
Fuck.
I couldn't fucking do it.
Five years. I thought I could forget her. I told myself she was just a woman who'd signed a contract. She took the money, had the child, then left. That was part of the deal. Nothing to miss.
But every sleepless night, every time I saw Juliet's green eyes, every time I smelled jasmine, I thought of her.
Thought of how she felt in my arms.
Thought of that broken sound when she called my name.
Thought of all those things in her eyes I never had time to understand.
Five years of longing, like a vine growing in darkness, silently occupying my chest, winding around every rib, piercing every inch of skin until even breathing hurt.
The moment I saw her in that bathroom, I knew. All the rationality, all the excuses, all the reasons about "what's best for her"—they shattered completely when her scent hit me.
I would bind her to my side. She wouldn't go anywhere.
Even if she hated me.
When the car pulled into the garage, Juliet was already asleep.
I lifted her from the back seat. She turned in my arms, mumbled "Vivi," then drifted off again.
Carmen waited at the door, reaching to take Juliet, but I refused.
I bent down and carried Juliet myself, heading to the elevator from the underground garage.
Carmen followed beside me, hesitating. "Sir, Miss Colonna..."
Before she finished, the elevator opened, and I instantly understood her unspoken warning.
Bianca stood elegantly at the elevator entrance, apparently having waited a long time.
She wore a tight dress, makeup perfect, hair freshly styled. When she saw me, her face held an expression I knew too well, scrutinizing, dissatisfied, with a territorial anger.
"Where did you go, Ezio? I called you all day."
I didn't answer, carrying Juliet upstairs.
"Ezio!" She followed, voice rising. "I'm talking to you!"
Juliet stirred in my arms, brow furrowing, making a displeased whimper.
I stopped and turned to Bianca.
"Lower your voice."
"I—" She glanced at Juliet, lowered her voice but kept the sharp edge. "Where did you go? Why didn't you answer my calls?"
"Out."
"With who?"
"None of your business."
Her expression changed.
"Carmen, take Juliet to her room," I said.
Carmen nodded and hurried upstairs. Juliet opened her eyes drowsily, glanced around, saw Bianca, and instantly stiffened. "Daddy..."
"It's fine," I said. "Go sleep."
Carmen carried Juliet away.
I turned back to Bianca. Her expression was ugly, arms crossed over her chest, eyes boring into me, waiting for an explanation.
"I know, it was that dance teacher, wasn't it? I knew those women were all sluts with ulterior motives..."
I walked past her toward the living room without looking back.
"What's it to you? Who said you could come into my house again?" I said.
She froze, then followed, heels clicking urgently on the marble floor. "I care about you! What if she has bad intentions? What if she's sent by your enemies—"
My steps faltered.
"I know her," I said, voice flat. "And I trust her more than I trust you."
Bianca's face flushed red from neck to ears.
"Ezio, what do you mean?" Her voice trembled. "I've done so much for Juliet."
My feet finally stopped. I turned and looked at her coldly.
"What have you done?" I said quietly. "Bossed the staff around? Talked trash about her mother in front of Juliet? Or interfered in my household affairs under the title of godmother?"
"I-I was just trying to help you."
"I don't need your help."
"Ezio!" Her eyes reddened, tears pooling. "I know you still think about that woman, but she's been gone five years! She doesn't care about you or Juliet! Are you going to hurt me by getting close to other women just to spite her?"
"She left because of me," I said, every word clear. "I drove her away."
Bianca froze. Tears hung on her lashes without falling, mouth slightly open, like she couldn't believe what she'd heard.
"As for you, Bianca," I looked into her eyes, "you'd better remember your place. You're Juliet's godmother. That's all."
Her lips trembled, tears finally falling down her cheeks. But this time I didn't soften. Five years ago, I'd tolerated her out of guilt, let her meddle in family affairs, arbitrarily punish staff, and say those things in front of Juliet. I wouldn't tolerate it anymore.
"Who is that woman?" Her voice was hoarse, carrying a last trace of unwillingness.
"None of your business."
"Ezio!"
"Get out," I said.
She stared at me, teeth biting her lip, leaving a white mark. Her chest heaved violently.
"You'll regret this," she said, voice soft, but I could hear what lay beneath—not sadness, not disappointment, but something more vicious, more dangerous. "You'll regret this."
Then she turned, grabbed her bag from the sofa, and stumbled toward the door.
Her heels made a chaotic clatter on the marble. The door slammed shut.
I stood in the living room, staring at that door for a long time.
Then I turned to the intercom and pressed a number.
"Sir?" Carmen's voice came through.
"Send Emily to me."
"Yes."
Minutes later, a knock sounded. I said enter, and Emily walked in. She was a kitchen helper who'd worked here a year.
"Sir," she stood in the doorway, nervous. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yeah." I turned to face her. "How long have you been feeding information to Bianca?"
Her face went white instantly.
"Sir, I—"
"Answer me."
"I-I just..." Her voice shook. "She asked about your schedule, I-I thought as godmother, she had the right to know—"
"You thought?" I stared at her. "You've worked here three years. I assumed you understood professional boundaries."
"Sir, I—"
"Casually leaking your employer's privacy," I interrupted, voice cold. "You think that's minor?"
"Sir, I was wrong," tears fell. "I truly know I was wrong, please give me another chance—"
"You can go."
She froze.
"What?"
"Pack your things. Leave within the hour."
"Sir!"
"And," I continued, "I'll have Carmen notify all relevant domestic agencies that you were fired for leaking employer information. I imagine you'll have difficulty finding similar work."
Her face went from white to ashen, cold sweat beading on her forehead.
"Sir, please..."
"Out."
Her face turned from white to gray. She opened her mouth to say more, but meeting my eyes, the words caught in her throat. Sweat started on her forehead, trickling down her temples. Then she lowered her head, turned, and left. Her steps were quick, like fleeing.
The living room quieted again.
I stood by the window, watching Bianca's taillights disappear at the end of the street.
I rubbed my temples.
She'd built her network in this family for five years—had her connections, her methods, what she wanted.
But I didn't care.
I'd tolerated her these five years only because of guilt—guilt toward her, guilt toward that unborn child, guilt toward Olivia.
I thought tolerating her compensated for the past, thought letting her stay at the manor could ease the mistakes I'd made.
But guilt isn't love, compensation isn't companionship.
She didn't understand the difference between the two, or maybe she did but didn't care.
Now Olivia was back.
I wouldn't let her suffer any grievance again.