Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Angelo says in a stern voice, “You can’t stay in a cave. That’s not an option.”
“I want to stay here.” Her voice quivers with tears. “With Sabella.”
“Jesus,” Angelo says under his breath, clenching his hands into balls.
“She can stay,” I say, beseeching him with a look. “I don’t mind. In fact, I think it will be the best plan given the circumstances.”
He opens his mouth and shuts it again. Holding out a hand, he says, “Come on, Sophie. Don’t you want to see my house?”
“No.” She hurls the words at him. “Beatrice doesn’t like you. She doesn’t want to live in your house. She wants to stay with Sabella.”
“For God’s sake,” he mutters, dropping his arm at his side.
“It’s all right, sweetheart.” I turn and crouch down to hug her. “Everyone wants what’s best for you and Beatrice.” I glance at my husband. “Isn’t that true?”
“Fine,” he grunts, wiping a hand over his brow. “Let her stay here while I work out a solution.”
I don’t ask what kind of solution. I don’t want to spook Sophie more. At least she’s staying. For now. Whatever Angelo comes up with, we’ll handle it when the time comes.
“On one condition,” he says.
I make big eyes at him. He shouldn’t blackmail the poor child. He just gave her his word. If he changes his decision, she’ll never trust him.
He advances to us. His expression is soft when he addresses Sophie again. “I want you to show me where your brothers are staying.”
“Why?” she asks, sounding scared.
He glances at me with an uncertain expression. He opens his mouth, but before he can utter a word, I say, “Because I’m going to cook a big, delicious meal, and I’d like to invite them.”
“With chicken?” she asks. “Like the ones that turns around and around in the machine outside the supermarket?”
“Yes.” I brush a hand over her hair. “With grilled chicken and chocolate cake for dessert.”
She lifts the doll to her ear. A moment passes as she pretends to listen, and then she says, “Beatrice says you’ll need three chickens and two cakes.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Beatrice is a little gourmand, isn’t she?”
Sophie scrunches up her face. “A what?”
“Someone who likes to eat a little too much.”
“Oh, no.” Sophie shakes her head. “I have three brothers, and they eat a lot.”
“Ah.” I catch Angelo’s gaze. “Three chickens can be organized, can’t it? I’ll take care of the cake.”
“Of course,” he replies, staring at me with a strange light in his dark eyes. His voice scrapes in his throat as he clears it. “I’ll let you settle Sophie in then.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
He nods, hesitates, and finally walks to the door and pulls it open. Pausing on the threshold, he says, “Goodnight, Sophie.”
The smile he directs at me before he leaves is different. It’s not a cruel smile given in a moment of extracting vengeance. It’s not a cold smile to emphasize his hatred. It’s not an arrogant smile that expresses his indifference. It’s a warm smile, soft and gentle, and it dislodges something in my chest. The gesture is so foreign for him that it takes me a moment to place it.
Gratitude.
It touches me a million times more profoundly than when he lays his hands on me.
Chapter
Sixteen
Angelo
* * *
At first light, I drive to Uncle Nico’s house. It’s a Mediterranean style villa on the outskirts of Bastia. When I park outside, it strikes me how seldom I visited him here. Business has always been conducted at our house. As the head of the organization, that was my father’s right. It was his brothers’ duty to show him the respect he deserved by going to him. However, I’m not thinking about the business meetings. It’s the lunches and dinners that are on my mind.
My mother often cooked for my uncles. My father invited them on a regular basis when no business was discussed. My uncles, on the other hand, never invited us for a family or social gathering, not even for a birthday. Why has it never occurred to me before?
A young woman in a housekeeper’s uniform opens the door before I reach it. Avoiding my eyes, she asks, “May I help you?”
I push her aside and enter, inviting a strangled gasp. “Tell my uncle his nephew is here.”
She scurries across the foyer and up the stairs, leaving me to close the door.
The last time I came here, the old housekeeper was still alive. She had a wrinkled face and thin white hair. I don’t recall her name. She offered me gingerbread and milk in the kitchen as if I was six instead of sixteen. The dementia was already eating her mind away then.
Pulling off my gloves, I look around. The place is just as I remember. The interior is still opulent with golden cornices and heavy tassels on the purple velvet curtains. The wooden floor of the entrance with its ebony and ivory mosaic inlay in the center is polished to a shine. The only thing absent is the smell of potpourri. The old housekeeper left bowls full of the dried and scented rose petals throughout the house. Now the space smells like vinegar.