He straightens, jaw clenched, burdened in a way time never prepared him for. There are glimpses of the boy I held in my arms in a hospital almost two decades ago —small, scared.
He lingers close for a beat, then steps back. “How are you? Does anything hurt?”
“I’m okay,” she whispers, offering him a soft, weak smile. “I don’t want you panicking over me, love bug. You know I’m tougher than I look.”
She tries to reassure him, but I can see it; nothing she says will fully quiet the fear in him.
A soft sound comes from the kitchen before I say anything. Once the dust settled, I made a few calls and cashed in favors. I wasn’t leaving Beatrice’s recovery to chance—not after everything. I needed someone vetted. Invisible. Flawless.
She steps into view.
Hands loosely clasped in front of her. Spine straight. Movements measured. Her blonde hair is pulled into a smooth, disciplined knot at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place. She’s dressed in a crisp, understated uniform—neutral tones, clean lines, immaculate from collar to cuff. Composure wrapped in control.
She approaches us slowly, eyes alert but lowered just enough to show respect.
“Mrs. Davacalli,” she says, voice calm, even. “I’m Emily.”
Confusion flickers across Beatrice’s face. The question forms before the words do.
“I brought her in this morning,” I say. “She’ll be here while you recover.”
Emily doesn’t rush forward. Doesn’t crowd us. She stops where she is and waits. That restraint alone tells me I chose correctly.
“She comes with the highest recommendations in the city,” I continue. “The best at what she does.” My gaze flicks briefly toEmily, then returns to my wife. “She’ll handle the house. Meals. Schedules. Anything you need.”
“And nothing you don’t,” Emily adds quietly, already understanding the boundaries of this house without being told.
I nod once. Approval. Dismissal. Both.
“You focus on getting better,” I tell Beatrice, my voice low and steady. “Everything else is covered.”
I don’t wait for an argument. I never do.
Emily steps aside and moves back toward the kitchen, seamless and efficient, like she’s been part of this house for years instead of hours. “I’ll bring the medication the doctor prescribed to your room,” she says as she goes.
Because while Beatrice heals, nothing in my house is left to chance.
After Daniele and her share some time alone, I take her to bed. I walk her to our room and lower her gently onto the mattress, pushing her hair back from her face.
“You can sleep,” I murmur, caressing her cheek, trying to ease her toward rest.
“I don’t know if I can. My mind is just so… busy,” she whispers.
I thread our fingers together and press her hand to my chest. “Try, Bea. Your body needs it. Staying up and overthinking will only make everything worse.”
She nods, her lips parting around a long yawn. “Stay with me?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”I pull her against my chest and settle beside her. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Her hand grips my shirt, holding on even as her eyes flutter shut. I wait until her breathing evens out, then slowly slip out from under her.
I head toward the kitchen,needing a moment to breathe.
But as I round the corner, I find my second sitting at the counter with a glass of water in hand.
His eyes flick up to me. He lifts the glass slightly. “It should be a bourbon, but pain meds and alcohol don’t go together.”
“You look like crap,” I say, walking toward him and bracing my hands on the counter. “Shouldn’t you be in a hospital bed?”
