Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
VAL
I blocked out most of the ride to Stefano’s house, my mind reeling and distant, only able to hold on to enough awareness to keep myself physically between my son and his father.
At the moment, it seemed like keeping them apart kept Enzo away from the life I had tried so hard to protect him from, like one last barrier.
Such a stupid thought.
At the back of my mind, though, I took in all the flashing lights and police sirens as they chased us, and I felt the jolting high-speed chase as Stefano’s man maneuvered us through the streets of Brooklyn.
I knew enough about Stefano’s life to understand he had become a competent mafia boss, at the very least. The telling signs were right there in plain sight.
Signs like his confident mentions about the precinct’s beat cops who probably made it to Con Amore first. And how little he or his man behind the wheel worried about getting away from the police by being faster and smarter on the road.
We pulled into a narrow alley to wait them out for several minutes, and it felt like a damn eternity, but that was when my rational mind returned bit by bit.
My heartbeat raced again.
I had to do something, though I knew without a doubt that trying to escape from the car with Enzo would be nothing more than a futile attempt. Stefano could easily overpower me, even with an injured arm.
And he would threaten me again in front of Enzo.
So I kept my mouth shut and focused on my contingency plan instead.
Much like the pistol I carried in my purse, I’d hoped I would never have to put in play these mental escape routes, but tonight was the last straw.
Enzo and I would have to run now.
I had the money saved for it, locked up with the fake documents I’d had a forger make that gave us totally new identities.
And I’d had the new records updated every two years, keeping them untraceable and above suspicion.
Now that was our only way out.
I just had to get back to my apartment without Stefano catching me, grab the documents, the cash, and some clothes. Maybe two or three of Enzo’s favorite books. Then I could take my son and leave this nightmare behind without looking back.
We would abandon this dangerous life and build a safer one somewhere else.
I knew how to do this. I’d been planning it for nine years.
I just hadn’t expected it to become our reality, not really. And now that it was, I felt unprepared to actually make it happen.
What the hell would I tell Enzo?
How would I explain to my nine-year-old that he could no longer be Enzo Salera? That his new name for the rest of his life would be Angelo Salvatore, and he could never go back to the only home he’d ever known?
How would I explain the importance of never mentioning Brooklyn again, the importance of never telling a soul when or why we had moved to Arizona?
How the hell would I tell him he had to forget about our life in New York, quickly and forever, because it was the only way to ensure we would have any kind of life at all?
How could I make him understand he needed to leave behind the child he’d always been, the young man he was becoming, as we ran for our lives?
The running would never be the hard part.
I had all the logistics covered, including half a million dollars cash in a lockbox at a small bank with the hundred thousand hidden in my apartment. I knew what I had stashed in my apartment wouldn’t be enough to live on for very long.
So my new identity already had bank accounts in a different state and funds in an offshore account for good measure.
I had prayed it would never come down to it, or that if it needed to happen, Enzo would be too young to remember his old life or old enough for me to tell him the whole truth.
He was neither.
Still, it was happening, ready or not.
When Stefano’s car pulled through his estate’s iron gates and up to the house, I got out of the car and pulled Enzo with me, keeping him snuggled tightly at my side. I never once let go of his hand.
He didn’t fight me. He held my hand and just stared at everything with his mouth closed, his eyes wide.
No fear. No terror.
It wasn’t the first time I wished my son wore his emotions on his sleeve like so many other children his age. Sometimes I knew exactly what he was thinking, but those moments were becoming the exception.
Enzo’s face might as well have been etched from marble.
I’d seen his stoic expression enough to understand it, though.
Like some kind of machine, my son gathered data, cataloging, and analyzing, trying to understand the facts of the situation before deciding how to feel about it.
Then again, he could have also been in shock.
Stefano led us into the house and brusquely dismissed us by instructing his maid to take us to the guest suite. Enzo and I quietly followed her up the staircase.
I’d been expecting a moderately large guest room, something more like what we would have found at a four-star hotel. Ha. Not even close.
The maid led us through what she called my room first. The second we entered, I instantly understood what Stefano intended for the room to be. A gilded cage—beautiful, decorated in rich golden ochers, warm whites, and hints of delicate sky blue.
The room was large and airy and would have been more than suitable if someone hadn’t forced it upon me.
As if to emphasize my new captivity on her employer’s behalf, the maid went straight to the balcony doors and locked them with the set of keys pulled from her apron.
“If this room is satisfactory,” she said, gesturing with an open arm at Enzo, “I will show the boy to his room.”
“No,” I half-shouted, then cleared my throat and attempted to smile. “We’ll share this one. Thank you.”
“Oh…”
For all her efficiency, the maid clearly didn’t know what to do with a guest who argued—with her or with her employer.
“But… I was instructed to make up the adjoining room as well. There’s plenty of space for you both, with a shared bathroom in between. You’re welcome to leave the pass-through doors open whenever you like. That’s up to your discretion, ma’am. The entire suite is yours.”
Enzo stepped forward and intervened before I could argue any further.
“Adjoining rooms are fine,” he said.
The maid blinked at him, probably as surprised as every other adult who didn’t know my son when he let out an unexpected comment like that far beyond his years. Then her eager-to-please smile returned, and she dipped her head at him.
“Wonderful. It’s right this way.”
Enzo let out a big yawn and rubbed one eye with the back of his hand before following her.
He looked exhausted, yes, but there was more to it. The way he’d snapped out his last words signaled his growing anger, and when he got angry, he needed space. He had always been like that, sitting by himself for an hour or two before moving on to deal with whatever had upset him.
Mainly, that anger had stemmed from watching a customer being rude to me or because he had some kind of argument with another kid in his class. This was on a whole new level, though. But it made sense he would want to process this unexpected experience.
If he was angry with me, well, I couldn’t blame him.
Sure, I could argue against Enzo having his own room, since we shouldn't be here in this house. And yes, I wanted to insist that he and I sleep in the same room. In the same bed even. That was the only way I could know he was safe every second we spent in Stefano’s house.
I really wanted to insist.
But I also realized how unfair that would be. My fears were my own, not his, and while keeping him at my side like that would have made me feel better, it wouldn’t have been a decision made with Enzo’s best interest as the top priority.
More than that, as much as I hated to admit it, Enzo and I really were safe under Stefano’s roof.
Stefano wouldn’t have taken a bullet for my son if he had wanted to hurt him.
Mafia men did not hurt their own children.
In this world, any child was useful, even illegitimate ones.
Little boys were raised to be soldiers. A bastard could rise to the ranks of lieutenant or even a don’s second-in-command if he was smart enough.
Girls, though, were raised as the property of everyone else but themselves, sold into marriage to solidify business deals.
In the mafia world, no one was free.
Men were expected to bleed for their families, die if necessary. Women were expected to go along with it all if they wished to be honored, expected to live in obedience, opening their legs and keeping their mouths shut.
I had worked so hard to keep Enzo away from this life, yet here we were.
At least he was safe. For now.
I would stay close to him, be there whenever he needed me. But without literally saying the words, he’d asked me for a little space, and I would give him as much as I could.
His slightly smaller room would be just fine since it still connected the two of us. I didn’t like it, but I could live with it for his sake.
As the maid led us through and pointed out various things to Enzo, I propped the doors open and ensured all the locks were disengaged.
When it came time for Enzo to go to bed, I knew it would be an entirely sleepless night for me. I would be up all night without even trying, listening for any sound or disturbance.
No big deal, though. Because that provided me the perfect opportunity to solidify my plans for our future, including how my son and I would leave this beautiful cage and run to our new life… where no one would ever be able to find us.
Not even Stefano.
Just before the maid left us, I touched her arm to stop her.
“Hey, I didn’t get your name.”
She smiled. “Bella… I’m Bella.”
She shut the door behind herself, and Enzo sighed.
“I want to go to sleep, Mama,” he said with the faintest whine curling the end of his statement.
I nodded and pointed at the bathroom behind us.
“Okay, buddy. At least brush your teeth.”
He nodded back and did as I asked without another word.
I wanted to talk to him. And cuddle him. I wanted to explain everything, but I didn’t know where to start. I doubted he was ready to listen. I’d kept secrets from him, and now he knew it.
Once I had him tucked in beneath the luxurious down comforter, I headed through the bathroom to my own room, but stopped to draw myself a bath instead. I closed the door between my son and me, thought better of it, then cracked it open a little. Then I turned on the faucet and stripped down.
As I sank into the large clawfoot tub, quickly filling with steaming water, everything I’d been holding in burst out of me without warning.
Maybe it was the roar of the faucet masking all other sounds that made my letting go feel safe. Maybe it was the instant burn of the hot water melting into my tense muscles. Maybe I’d just run out of strength to keep it together.
I sobbed in the bath, releasing all the frustration, anger, and fear from my body, mixing it into the hot water. Then eventually, it would all drain away together.
I knew even before the first tears fell, it wasn’t sadness for the life I’d lost that night or grief over the childhood stolen from my son. No, the sadness would come later, when it was time to mourn what we’d left behind.
And mourning could only happen when we were safe.
In this life, Valerie and Enzo Salera were dead.
Angelo and Victoria Salvatore could grieve for them when it was all over.
That night, I cried to purge all the excess emotion I couldn’t let Enzo see. To clear my head, so I could think.
When the tub was full, I turned off the tap, stopped crying, and put myself back together. That was all the time I gave myself to cry—only until the bath was full, hiding it beneath the sound of rushing water. My nonna had taught me this trick, and I used it more times than I could count.
More times than Enzo would ever know.
We must never let the men see us cry. They view it as our weakness and use it as a weapon against us.
I could practically hear my sweet nonna ’s accented, almost musical voice whispering those words to me, just like when I was a child.
But no longer would I worry about the men in my life using my tears against me, even though her words would never die. It made me feel close to my grandmother, like she shared my grief, my frustrations, my anger, even from beyond the grave. So I never had to carry the burden alone.
Near the tub sat an assortment of bath oils. I grabbed one in an expensive looking glass bottle and sniffed its contents—warm vanilla and flowers.
For a moment, I wondered who it belonged to before realizing I really didn’t care. I poured some into the water, leaned back, and took long, deeply cleansing breaths.
The bathroom was quite beautiful, the walls a soothing earthy yellow with green millwork and little pops of blue accents here and there. Italian stone tiles covered the floor, and the tub, toilet, and sinks matched each other in their soft, gleaming white.
The color scheme evoked the Tuscan countryside, with no expense spared in bringing a bit of the old country into the new.
Both bedrooms in this suite of ours shared the overall scheme, though mine had lighter, airy accents like a vase of white and yellow roses, while Enzo’s room boasted darker wood and flowerless plants.
Clearly, this suite was made to be shared by a man and a woman—the masculine and feminine aspects of the same color scheme and theme throughout. Whoever Stefano’s decorator was, the grandmothers would have been proud of their work.
With one more deep breath, I sank under the warm, fragrant water, submerging my entire body to my nose.
Tonight, all I needed to do was process our current situation. I couldn’t leave, not yet. Returning to the apartment wasn’t safe until we dealt with the threat.
But the second it was, Enzo and I were gone. Stefano had said he would respect my choices, that he would ensure our safety, and that we would never have to see him again.
I didn't believe him for a second.
A man like that, a man in power, would never let his only son grow up outside the family business.
Even if Stefano was a rare breed on his own and intended to keep his word, I couldn't risk it. If he got to know Enzo, if he saw in his son what I did, the man would suck my innocent baby boy into his world like a sinkhole opening beneath our feet.
I had to leave. It had to be done.
If I had my way, I would buy plane tickets to Italy and get on a train to anywhere after that. The idea of international travel had always tugged at me, but our documents weren’t anywhere close to passable for getting them through TSA security. We probably wouldn’t make it to the gate.
No, the second it was safe, Enzo and I would head north. Boston maybe. Or Maine. It wouldn't be a bad idea to get out of this cold climate and head south either. Georgia looked pretty. Louisiana had culture and character.
Then again, there seemed to be fewer people out west, where the cities were larger and not so closely packed together.
While the warm water soaked my weary bones, I let myself fantasize about what life might look like for Enzo and me in Albuquerque, Denver, or Seattle. I had enough money. I might even rebuild Con Amore in another city.
Either way, whatever move I made, it would take time I didn't have. So I needed to decide right away and make what preparations I could before our window of opportunity closed forever.
In the morning, I would explore the house, create a mental map of the layout. Once I found the fastest, easiest path from our suite back to the café without being seen or followed, we could make our move.
After that, I figured I would need fifteen minutes, thirty at most, to get into the apartment, gather what we needed, and get out again to be on our way.
I reached over the rim of the tub for my pile of clothes and fished my cell phone out of my dress pocket.
It took a few tries to unlock it with my pruney fingers, but then I opened the encrypted banking app and made the transfers from my offshore account to another one under the name on my new passport ID, moving it in one-hundred-thousand-dollar increments at a time.
The cash would only last us so long.
Maybe only long enough to get out of the city and hide our tracks until I found the next best place for Enzo and me to call home. After that, legitimate bank accounts and plastic and the paper trail they left would draw far less attention.
Whatever I did, I had to be sure no one followed us.
Not Stefano.
Not my own family.