She dragged her fingers across her lips as the color rose in her cheeks. And then my little fireball said in a steady voice, “The devil doesn’t sleep on the floor next to a crib, nor would he stop himself from taking what he wanted, would he?” Her hand planted on my chest, and I lowered my eyes to her touch. “So, like I said, I call bullshit.”
My breathing intensified as the blood rushed south, and all I wanted to do right now was take this woman and make her mine in every possible way.
When I remained quiet, she said in a softer tone, “You could’ve had me six years ago, and you could’ve had me last night. The fact you haven’t yet is on you. Only you. So be mad at yourself, no one else.”
“Believe me, I hate myself enough for the both of us and then some,” I snapped; then we both turned at the sound of Chiara crying, and I was shocked she hadn’t woken sooner when Thomas had been there.
Maria’s shoulders fell, and she pulled her hand from my chest. “I have to get her ready for Thomas’s. After this morning, if I don’t do what he wants, he’ll make my life miserable. I don’t want him trying to change the custody agreement or drag me back to court.”
“I’d never let that happen,” I reminded her, which only earned me a stern look. “Not by killing him,” I reluctantly added in case there was any doubt. “Unless—”
“He hurt me,” she finished for me, and a sad look that crushed me crossed her face. “He won’t, just so we’re clear. Thomas was a cheat and a lousy husband, but that’s it. Because of Chiara, he’s going to be in my life, and you need to learn to accept that if you want to stay in mine, too.” She turned to the side, preparing to go to Chiara. “And, Enzo? This whole you-killing-a-killer thing . . . we’re not done talking about that.”
Once she was gone from sight, I let go of a gruff breath and slipped on my shoes. I snatched my hat and went home, deciding she needed time alone with her daughter. Plus, she needed to process our conversation. Or had that been a fight? Hell, I didn’t know what to call it, but I felt horrible. The idea of possibly losing them both had me feeling empty.
Once in my bedroom, I opened the top drawer of my dresser, searching for the small black velvet box I kept hidden in there. I opened it up and removed the rosary chain I hadn’t touched since giving up my life in New York two years ago. It’d been Bianca’s. She’d been a devout Catholic like our mom. Rarely missing mass unless it was for work.
After tightening my hand around the necklace, my eyes fell to the same beaded rosary tattooed on my forearm. Bianca’s initials were in script beneath the cross, and memories from my past burned through my mind. I nearly took a knee as the pain robbed me of the breath from my lungs.
It took a text from my brother to shake me free from whatever zoned-out state I’d fallen into, and I stored the rosary back where it belonged and read my brother’s message.
Alessandro: How’d last night go?
I dropped onto my bed, my gaze moving to the mirror over the dresser for a moment, catching sight of my tired eyes. How’d Maria function during the day waking up so many times in the middle of the night to put Chiara back to sleep? I was beat from one night of doing it.
Me: Why are you up so early? I thought you rolled into the office after nine.
Alessandro: Dodging my question, I see.
Me: It didn’t go as expected.
Alessandro: Because you did or didn’t kill someone?
Me: I played babysitter while she went on a date. Then she came home and I . . .
I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to divulge, particularly over text. My brother must’ve read my thoughts, because the phone rang a second later, and he placed us on FaceTime. “Are you on a stair climber?” That drew an unexpected laugh from me.
“It’s good cardio.”
“What, having sex with two women last night wasn’t enough cardio for you?” I glared at him, his white tee and hair soaked in sweat. Out of all of us Costa kids, Alessandro’s complexion was the lightest, and he had sandy-brown hair and silvery-gray eyes. Features that kids used to tease him about when growing up were the same ones that women flocked to him for now. Well, among other reasons.
“Nah, you know how it is. Sex doesn’t scratch the itch. Not after the lives we’ve lived.”
“And the stair climber does?” I couldn’t help but smile, but at least he was changing my mood.
“Gets my heart going is about all.” My brother stopped the machine and swiped a towel over his face. He had his own personal gym inside his penthouse in New York, so there was no risk of anyone overhearing our conversation. “But nothing can replace—”