I needto relearn who Beatrice is.
The jingleof the ice cream truck rings through the park. I stand up, eyes tracking Daniele automatically—still at the sandpit, still laughing—before I walk toward the truck.
Summer has been brutal this year in New York, all heavy heat and smothering air, but clearing my head outside makes it bearable.
“Hello,” the server says warmly. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”
“One vanilla bean ice cream, please.”
A moment later it’s in my hand, cold and dripping at the edges. I turn back toward the bench?—
And I only make it a few steps before someone yanks me violently to the side.
The cone slips from my hand.
I suckin a breath to scream—but a palm slams over my mouth, crushing the sound in my throat.
I thrash instinctively, heart hammering, legs scrambling for leverage.
“Shhh. Calm down, cara mia. It’s only me.”
That voice. Low. Smooth.
As familiar as a nightmare.
My entire body locks.My spine turns to stone. His grip on my arm is iron—tight enough to bruise, tight enough to burn.
“Ciao, cara.” His breath hits my cheek, hot and sour. “It’s been a while.”
Giacomo.
No. No, no, no—he can’t be here.
I try to twist away, but he drags me closer, and something hard jabs into my side—a blade, sharp enough to part fabric and skin.
“One wrong move,”he whispers, “and I slice you open right here.”
I freeze instantly. Every muscle. Every thought.
“Good girl, Bea,” he murmurs. “And here I thought he fucked the obedience right out of you.”
The way he says my name—spat, twisted—turns my stomach.
He leans in, serpent-slick. “Come. We have much to discuss. Let’s find somewhere quieter… somewhere just for us.”
No, I cannot go anywhere with him.
But Daniele is too close. A few yards away. Innocent. Unaware.
If I scream,if I fight, if I do anything reckless—he will go straight for my son.
So I don’t resist as he pulls me away from the crowd… not because I’m obedient, but because I’m a mother.
My mind races.
I count my steps.I count my breaths. Anything to track where he’s taking me and how far I am from my son.
My fingers itch for my phone, for the panic button Matteo installed months ago. But if I reach for it, even once, Giacomo will feel the shift in my body. He always could read my fear like scripture.
