4. Matilde
Matilde
During our flight to Chicago, I’d finally told Gia of my father’s deathbed confession and the twin sister I must find. She promised to help me if she can, but the admission left me feeling vulnerable when I’m already nervous about today.
“Gia! What a lovely surprise,” a lovely older woman cries when we step into the foyer of Nico Morelli’s impressive townhome. My suspicion that she’s Caterina’s mother is soon confirmed.
Zeta Morelli warmly welcomes me, but the heavier footsteps of men approaching makes me tense. Gia’s husband is unpleasant with beady eyes that roam freely; however, it’s the other man who reminds me I’m a lamb entering the lion’s den.
With broad shoulders, Nico Morelli towers over me and everyone else in the room in his tailored, three-piece suit.
A flash of muted silver cufflinks catches my eye before I notice his gold wedding band.
His shoes are polished to perfection and not a single strand of his dark hair is out of place, but the black stubble covering his strong jaw is thick.
He doesn’t have the Trio tattoo across his throat like the men in Las Vegas.
I’d heard some get it over their heart instead.
Flustered, I steer my thoughts away from picturing his bare chest.
Sofia’s term was accurate. His scar is memorable. Imperfectly healed, from the edge of one eyebrow, barely missing his eye, through his cheek, it extends downward until it abruptly turns and ends about an inch from his ear. It must have been agony when he was cut.
Yet, it doesn’t repulse me. I find Nico attractive in a severe sort of way.
After crisply greeting Gia, he stares at me for several uncomfortable seconds. I stare back, mesmerized by the way his slate gray eyes bring the stormy sea to mind.
“Benvenuta, signorina,” he says at last. The deep rumbling sound of his voice causes my cheeks to heat, and I force the expected words past my lips while fidgeting with my borrowed suitcase.
“Gia,” Zeta says, breaking the tension. “Nico and I will give you a moment of privacy with your husband while we show Matilde up to the nursery so she may meet the babies and settle into her room-”
“No.” Nico’s brusque refusal is a thunderclap. “She’ll meet the twins, but she’ll live with you, Mother.”
That wasn’t the plan. Am I in danger of losing this position already? Silvio expects information.
The faint sound of a baby crying floats down the stairs, and Nico’s jaw clenches. “She can watch the children when needed, but this child requires supervision, and the last thing I need is another dependent to raise. My decision is final.”
Child? Supervision? Dependent? I’m a great bother to him, am I?
For the first time since my father died and upended my life with his final words, anger burns through everything else, and I’m tempted to wallop Nico Morelli with my suitcase and walk out the door.
What is wrong with you, Matilde? Not only is the man still grieving for his wife, but he’s also the future Capo of Chicago, a dangerous man.
“Shall we go up then?” Zeta asks, taking my arm. “It sounds as if the babies are stirring from their nap, and you can refresh yourself after your flight.”
Nico steps forward, taking my suitcase and leading the way. I shoot one final glance at Gia before following him up the polished steps and down a carpeted hallway.
Before we reach the nursery, Zeta is interrupted by a phone call. “I apologize. My husband is calling about his doctor’s appointment.”
Nico’s expression tightens. “Go ahead,” he tells his mother, who slips into an alcove to answer the call.
My attention drifts to the double doors standing open at the far end of the hallway, revealing the primary suite. Ash gray walls and a large painting hangs over the enormous bed. The black, pinch-pleat duvet looks impossibly thick and soft.
“That’s not my children’s room.”
Turning, I realize Nico caught me staring. “Mi dispiace, signore. I mean, sir.”
“Call me Nico. How much do you know about caring for infants?”
“Some.”
He scowls. “Some? Am I meant to guess what that means?”
His sharp tone rattles me. What do I tell him? I know very little about infants in truth, but I can learn. I took care of the lambs on the farm after all, and they’re babies, too. “I watch the… I have helped, um…”
“How well do you speak English, Matilde?”
“I get better. I-”
“Keep working on it. My children will speak English far more than Italian, and I won’t have them sounding ignorant when they do.”
My anger blazes forth again. “As their father, I would think they learn to speak it first from you, sir.”
His eyes narrow, but Zeta rejoins us, leading me into the nursery.
Its large windows overlook the well-kept, enclosed garden behind the house.
The nursery walls are lemon yellow with hand painted pastoral scenes above the two cribs.
The dark walnut furniture matches the deep-cushioned rocking chair in the corner.
I can feel Nico’s glare on my back as Zeta picks up one of the children. “This is Lucia. She cries at every stranger, but she’ll get used to you soon enough.”
The baby stares at her grandmother for a heartbeat, opens her little mouth and emits a plaintive whimper. A ripple of tension sweeps through my entire body. I’m to be responsible for this little creature? Oh Dio, this is not like tending lambs at all.
“They’re in the colicky stage.”
“Colicky?” I repeat, not understanding the word.
“They want a bottle after their nap,” Zeta rattles on. “Take a seat, Matilde.” She steers me toward the rocking chair, and I obey her command, not knowing what else to do. Then, she starts to pass the child to me. “Be sure to support her head.”
Before I can take the baby – and completely freak out – Nico intercedes, taking his daughter instead, his scowl daring me to protest. I won’t.
Lucia is so tiny in her father’s arms. It’s an oddly endearing sight, such a large and intimidating man cradling his daughter against his broad chest, her little fingers wrapped around one of his thumbs.
Once Zeta has prepared two bottles and hands one to Nico, she picks up the second baby.
“Amadeo, this is your nanny, Matilde.” The baby boy’s suspicious scowl reminds me remarkably of his father’s.
“Yes, you’re hungry, I know,” his grandmother coos.
She smirks at her son before plopping her grandson into my lap.
My pulse races with utter terror but only for a moment. “Oh, he’s…”
“Bigger than his sister, yes,” Zeta chuckles. “I would swear he’s stealing Lucia’s bottles if we didn’t know better.”
“No, he is perfect,” I whisper. Ten fingers, ten toes, chubby cheeks. Dark hair and misty gray eyes. He’s heavier than I expected, solid and sturdy with that baby soft skin. He doesn’t smell like a dirty diaper. He smells incredibly sweet.
I give Zeta a questioning look. She nods at the bottle, smiling. “Trust me. He’s figured out what to do with it.” Her confidence kindles my own, and I brush the tip across his lips. He latches on at once, sucking eagerly and studying my face with his adorably judgmental expression.
Carefully, I rock him. “Poor, sweet babies,” I murmur in Italian, my heart exploding with emotion, thinking of the mother they lost and the one I’ll never know.
Lucia isn’t even halfway through her bottle when Amadeo finishes his. His small hands ball up into tiny fists… right before he spits up all over my blouse.
I yelp, and the baby in my arms releases an ear-splitting wail in reply.
“Fuck,” a low voice growls in annoyance beside me as Zeta darts to the dresser to fetch a rag.
***
Even with the generosity of the De Luca ladies, I don’t have many clothes, so I wash out my blouse as best I can in the laundry room’s sink after switching into a clean sweater.
Gia and her husband, who is the Chicago Consigliere, have been invited to stay for dinner. Zeta is playing hostess for her son which means I’m staying, too. I wish I could hide here instead of sitting through an awkward meal with the master of the house who’s taken an immediate dislike to me.
Wadding up my wet blouse, I stuff it in the bottom of my suitcase and step back into the hallway, gasping at the dark shadow lurking by the door. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d fallen in,” Nico drawls.
I pull my suitcase up to my chest. “I needed change.”
“You needed to change.”
“I do not need an English lesson,” I snap.
“If I decide you need a lesson in something, you’ll get it.”
Oh Dio, this man and I will get along like the cat and dog. “Are you always rude or is it for me?”
“Careful, girl,” he warns, stepping close. “I’ve agreed to this arrangement for now, but arrangements can change, and I was told you have nowhere else to go.”
He’s like a furnace this close, and my cheeks pinken from that as much as the truth of his statement. “You change it already,” I mutter.
“Why did Silvio really send you to me?”
He’s suspicious. Why wouldn’t he be? And he’s dangerous. “Your babies need-”
“Someone experienced to care for them. That’s not you.”
“I will learn.”
“There will be much for you to learn.”
He’s right. How could everything change so quickly? I had a good life in Sicily, even with a mother who didn’t want me around. What did I do to deserve this? The injustice of it all makes me angry again.
But staring at the man before me, I recall he’s been through a lot, too, and my own anger retreats. Caterina expressed much love for her brother. If a girl so good and kind can love him, there must be something worthwhile under the cold cruelty.
“Yes, get a good look,” he snarls unexpectedly, and my brow furrows in confusion at his order. He points to his scar. “It’s ugly, isn’t it? Want to hear how I got it?”
I wasn’t thinking about his scar, but curiosity prompts me to ask, “How?”
Surprise flashes in his eyes before they grow stormy again. “I was fourteen, newly inducted and eager to prove myself when my father sent me to question a potential traitor.”
“He had knife?”
“Not for long. After he slashed my face open, I fought for control of it and won.”
He reaches inside his coat, pulling out a scary-looking blade. My father had a similar one for close-quarters fighting. The handle of Nico’s is wrapped in supple black leather.
“You keep it?”
“Yes, I kept it. I carry many knives, but this one is still my favorite.”
Wariness settles in my bones, hearing the loving way he speaks of the deadly weapon that left him scarred. “You kill him?”
“Not right away. Once he confessed his treasons, I peeled his face off, slowly, before popping his eyeballs with the tip, like a pin pricking a balloon. Then, I gave him the mercy of a slit throat.”
My stomach roils threateningly at the gruesome image he paints while his voice is perfectly calm. Quick as lightning, he sheaths the blade again, handling it as though it’s part of his arm.
“We deal with betrayal harshly in the Trio.”
Every hair on my body stands on end, but cowering only makes a monster bolder. “You try to scare me? Mio padre, Cosa Nostra. No saintly man. I know men like you.”
“You think you know men like me?” he sneers, his eyes hard as flint. “If my children come to any harm in your care, you will come to know my blade… intimately. Men like me devour girls like you."