Chapter 44
Daisy Peonia Mary Parker
Reggio Calabria, Calabria, Italy
Late into the night, the conversation from earlier replayed in my mind, keeping me awake.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out what on earth was going on inside Camillo Vicari’s head.
With one hand, he pulled me toward him. With the other, he pushed me away.
I tossed and turned in that bed, the scent of lavender from the sheets seeping into my chest and drawing a deep sigh from me. Lying on my side, I fixed my gaze on the narrow, long window, divided by black iron bars.
The moon was beautiful. It rose in the dark sky, half its face lost behind a veil of shadows. I focused on it in an attempt to forget the day, my reality, and that place, all of it far too impersonal.
Camillo’s penthouse was a testament to modernism and masculine aesthetics.
I preferred the villa in Castello dell’Fiero a thousand times over, with its old-world scent and furniture that looked like it had come straight out of a history book.
Perhaps because it exuded life, memories, while that place was nothing more than a frivolous dwelling, most certainly used for nights of fun.
The thought made me frown.
Sitting up with a sudden movement, I sniffed and scanned the room again with a grimace. I wondered how many women Camillo brought there in recent years, and inevitably, I remembered what Fabiano had told me about his ex-wife.
I flung the bedsheets aside, slipping out of bed.
A peach orchard. For his ex, Camillo had uprooted a peach orchard.
I shook my head, trying to banish the memory and the pang of jealousy as I crept across the cold floor and out of the bedroom.
I knew he’d been back for about an hour.
His room was on the opposite side of the penthouse, but I’d heard the distant murmur of his voice and the echo of footsteps and doors.
I’d hoped he’d already be asleep. The last thing I wanted at that moment was to run into him.
I had spent the afternoon alone after our conversation at lunch. Luca had still tried to convince me to go for a walk, but I had refused. I had too many questions in my head and zero desire to voice them—or perhaps I knew I wouldn’t get any concrete answers.
I walked into the penthouse’s small kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights.
The moon outside was bright enough to illuminate the interior of the apartment.
I headed for the fridge, hoping to find a snack that would drown out those thoughts; as soon as the door opened, I couldn’t help but smile wryly at what was resting on the shelf right in front of me.
Peaches. Huge, ripe, and as orange as a sunset.
I snorted, picking one up and taking a hearty bite.
I didn’t know how much time I had left, if any, or whether Camillo was actually going to carry out his plan to execute me.
At that moment, I knew nothing for certain.
Still, I made a mental note as I savored the sweet fruit, which melted against my tongue.
From then on, I would save the pit of every peach I ate. I would plant them around the villa, bringing back what the other woman had destroyed. Was that petty? Yes. But truth be told, I never intended to be a ray of sunshine.
I placed the pit on a saucer and left it on the counter. Tomorrow, I would wrap it in paper and take it back to the villa with me.
As I was getting ready to return to my room, a faint echo caught my attention. I froze in the middle of the dark hallway, my brow furrowing as my fists clenched. Before common sense could kick in, I was already moving toward the noise.
My stomach churned.
Muffled moans broke the tranquility of the night. It was hard to tell if they were from pleasure or… distress. They were stifled, perhaps by a pillow, and accompanied by rapid breathing and Italian words I couldn’t make out.
I stopped in front of the closed door to his room. Pressing my hands against the wood, I leaned in, trying to swallow the lump forming in my throat. Was he with another woman?
Camillo sounded breathless, and the noises he made, interspersed with a string of Italian words, were… strange.
I knew it wasn’t a good idea to be there. I knew it was wrong. Even so, my hands found the doorknob and eased the door open.
A crack. Just a crack to see if another woman was there. Then I would leave.
As soon as the door opened wide enough for me to peek through, my gaze darted to the bed, and my lips parted.
There was no one there but him.
Lying on his back with only a duvet draped over his hips, his bare chest rose and fell at a dizzying pace.
His face, illuminated by the silver moonlight, was contorted in a look of distress I had never seen before, and the words he murmured almost resembled a sob. But his eyes… His eyes were closed.
A nightmare, I realized.
I slipped into the room, stopping right beside the bed.
Beside him.
I didn’t know what to do. Camillo wasn’t the kind of man you’d imagine in a moment of vulnerability. He was all indifference and fortitude, a steel giant who rarely gave in to emotion. But that wasn’t what I saw now.
That strong man, that cruel mobster, was writhing in pain, his face washed in tears that seemed as though they would never stop falling.
Carefully, I sat on the edge of the bed and placed one of my trembling hands on his chest. He was drenched in sweat.
“Camillo…?” I whispered, startled by the violent thrum of his heartbeat against my palm. “Camillo…?”
“Marcello.” He groaned, and my eyebrows knitted together. “Marcello. Perdonami.” A name and a plea for forgiveness, that much I could understand. But the question remained: who was Marcello? “Perdonami.”
He turned with a sudden jerk, one of his hands clenching like a claw against the pillow. His whole body convulsed as the moans and pleas continued. I leaned over him to look at his face again, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw his teeth bared, gritted tight.
“Oh no…” I breathed, the sudden realization hitting me that he was going to hurt himself. I didn’t know if it was a good idea to wake him, but I had no choice. I placed one hand on his back and the other on his arm, shaking him. “Camillo, wake up. Please.” Nothing. I shook him harder. “CAMILLO!”
With a roar, Camillo bolted upright, gasping for air. His head hung forward, his sweat-soaked hair masking his expression. I moved closer, sliding a hand over him and lowering my face to meet his gaze.
“Daisy…” he wheezed, his voice breaking. The moment our eyes met, I saw the raw pain and the tears spilling from his. “Per favore, I need to be alone.”
“You were having a nightmare.” I pointed out, ignoring his request. No, he didn’t need to be alone. That was the last thing he needed. “You called out a name.”
“Daisy…”
“Who is Marcello?” I insisted, taking his hands in mine.
I expected him to push me away or bark at me to leave.
Instead, his jade eyes, clouded by tears, met mine, staring as if my mere presence were a knife piercing his gut.
“You were asking him for forgiveness…” I continued, choosing my words carefully. “Why?”
Camillo looked at me, his features tightening, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly in his throat. He stared at me for a long beat, lips pressed thin as if searching for the right words, until he brought my hands to his face and kissed them.
A jolt of electricity shot through my skin. The warmth of his lips felt like fire, and my pathetic heart gave in.
“You shouldn’t be here, Piccola Furetta.” He murmured, his gaze flickering away.
“I know. But I heard you and—“
“In Italy. In this world, I mean,” his jade eyes locking onto mine once more.
Slowly, his hands slid up my arms, pulling me into his warmth.
His breath tingled against my skin, and I breathed in his scent: mint mingled with liqueur and caramel.
When he cupped my chin and rested his other hand on my waist, it took every ounce of strength I had not to collapse against his chest. “You don’t deserve any of this,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against mine.
“Camillo…”
“I’m a monster, Daisy.” His voice trembled, and I realized he was crying. The strong man, the terrifying man, was weeping against my face. My arms rose instantly, wrapping around his neck, pulling him into an embrace. “I’m a monster.”
His head sank into my shoulder and my hands traced circles on his back.
No. He wasn’t a monster. Cruel? Without a doubt.
A monster? No. A monster would have found a way to get rid of me immediately.
A monster wouldn’t have taken me into his home, clothed and fed me, ensuring my safety.
A monster wouldn’t be loved, much less respected, by the people who worked for him.
A monster wouldn’t sob while clinging to my neck, nor would he beg for forgiveness in his sleep.
“My Papa told me something similar once,” I recalled, pressing my body against his.
“He did terrible things while serving in the army. But he wasn’t a monster.
” I felt Camillo’s body stiffen against mine and sighed, letting a smile tinged with sadness escape.
“Good men sometimes do horrible things.”
“I’m not a good man, Daisy. I’m not…” His voice was like the faint scraping of something. “If you knew what I’d done, you’d run far away.”
I stepped back and stared at him intently. There were no tears left on his face, only a hollow expression that blended into the shadows of the night. I slid my hands along the sharp line of his jaw, watching his eyes close as he drank in my touch.
“Don’t you regret it?” I asked, watching his face, the way shock etched itself into every line of his expression.
“Every second.” He gasped, the admission weighing heavy in his throat.