Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Only once she leaves does Henry return his focus to me. He doesn’t say anything, but his stare speaks volumes. As much as I hate to admit this, mafia law has protected Camille in the past, and it’ll continue to do so in the future.
Before I can nod, my phone buzzes. My brows knit when I notice who is calling. Marco only ever reaches out when trouble is brewing.
He’s babysitting Lucia tonight, so I answer his call immediately.
“What is it?”
“I lost sight of Lucia.” His wheezy breathes whistle down the line. It sounds like he’s running. “She must have noticed I was tracking her. She slipped down a side alley and then fucking vanished. I don’t know where she is.”
“Where?”
A brief stretch of silence presents, then: “On the Upper East Side.” He fights his subconscious for a few seconds before he adds, “She was carrying her backpack.”
I don’t need him to expand on his reply. Lucia only takes her backpack with her when she’s either running or up to mischief.
Fuck, I hope it’s the latter.
My expression must be extremely telling. Concetta, my impending stepmother, breaks through the wings of the stage, covers Camille’s ears, which momentarily disrupts her from sorting through the lollipop bouquet Anna handed her before following her mother’s brisk exit, then says, “If you need to handle something, I can take Camille back to the compound. Your father is gathering the car now. She’ll be safe there.” Her eyes stray in the direction Carmela just went. “I don’t care who she thinks she is; she won’t get within an inch of Camille under my watch.”
I love the protectiveness beaming out of her, but I still hesitate. Everything in me screams not to let Camille out of my sight, but she’s exhausted from her hour-long performance. She needs rest and quiet—two things I can’t give her while scouring the city for Lucia.
As I glance down at my daughter, who’s wrangling a grape-flavored sucker from its wrapper, the unease in my chest slackens. Something is wrong, and it’s coming fast, but I’m certain it’s on a direct collision course with Lucia, not Camille.
The intuition telling me this also announces that if I don’t act fast, I’ll run out of time.
Again, I have no choice. I must nod.
Camille isn’t in any danger right now.
I can’t offer the same guarantee for Lucia.
After brushing my lips against my daughter’s temple and snatching up her dance bag, I guide her and Concetta into one of the many SUVs idling outside. “Take them straight to the compound,” I instruct the driver. “Don’t stop anywhere.” I turn to face Concetta. “I’ll tell my father to meet you there.”
Concetta nods in understanding before she slips in behind Camille and buckles her into her car seat. Then, just as fast, I twist to face my brothers and father milling at the back of the concert hall, forever on alert.
One look tells them everything they need to know. The woman I love is in danger, and protecting her is more vital to me than anything I could lose by prioritizing her safety.
Chapter 30
Lucia
“Wow-wee, sweetheart. Aren’t you a treasure?”
“Don’t be shy, honey. We don’t bite.”
I duck my head low and hurry down the street as a third tormentor joins the duo who recently finished desecrating the sidewalk with urine.
“We don’t want to hurt you, sweetie. I just want you to sit on my face. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Do you want me to eat your pussy?”
Gagging, I quicken my pace. The trio follows for half a block, groping themselves as a crowd of homeless people mill around.
They’re creepers who can’t afford the drink cover charge of the local strip clubs, so they target homeless women, hoping their desperation for a meal will lower their morals enough to accept their offer.
I’m not that desperate. Yet.
I might not be able to say the same if Dante ruins my performance tonight like he did the last two times.
Suddenly, the trio backs off, their fear from more than a threat to tell their wives how they spent their Friday nights.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath when I spot the cause of their concern.
Across the street, Marco leans against a lamppost, pretending to scroll on his phone. Part of me appreciates his support. I’ve softened a lot over the past four weeks. But I’m also terrified. If Dante knows where I’m going and what I plan to do when I get there, he could steal the only chance I have of seeing my son this month.
He could even stall our contact indefinitely if my anger boils over too rapidly for me to contain all my secrets.
I can’t let that happen, so when the opportunity arises, I slip down a narrow alley between two buildings and duck behind a stack of crates at a takeout shop. Through the back door, I’m swamped by the smell of frying oil and old spices.