But Aurelio, likely the kid’s father, spoke up instead.
“A bad man hit her,” he told him honestly.
“You’re not supposed to hit girls!” the boy declared, immediately outraged.
“That’s right. You’re not,” Aurelio said.
“If I was there,” the boy continued, balling up his little fists, “I would have… bam… pow!” He demonstrated hisveryrefined fighting skills, which may or may not have ended with him knocking everything off of one of the end tables.
“Did you hit him, Uncle Milo?” the boy asked. “For hurting her?” he added after helping his father clean up his little mess.
“I did,” Milo confirmed.
We hadn’t talked about that. About the aftermath of the attack. About what happened to men who put their hands on someone who hit women under mafia protection. Milo and his cousins had made it pretty clear that there were some things regarding Family business that I was going to have to be okay with not knowing.
When he’d come back to the hotel late the night before we headed up to Navesink Bank, I’d said nothing about the blood on his clothes.
I just followed him into the bathroom, where he hopped into the shower, gathered them up, and put them in a trash bag. Then stood at the sink to meticulously scrub his watch free of the stains.
I wasn’t naïve.
The man who hit me was dead.
Milo had killed him.
I was dating someone whokilledpeople.
For me.
Yet all I felt at that was a sense of safety.
He would do whatever he needed to do to make sure no one hurt me. And if they did, they would pay for it. Ruthlessly.
And I was okay with that.
I wouldn’t be in Navesink Bank with him if I wasn’t.
I knew exactly what I was getting into.
It was after dinner when everyone was still gathered in the dining room still and I was on my way back from the powder room when I heard it.
The small but growing sound of grumbling discontent coming from the den.
The baby that had been passed around like a coveted party favor earlier had been sleeping peacefully through our meal but was clearly gearing up for a full-on cry.
I hadn’t taken my turn to hold the sweet little thing earlier. I’d been too nervous. But with everyone having such a fun time in the dining room—laughter dancing down the hall toward me—I decided to fix that mistake and give them a few more moments of peace.
“Hey there,” I said as I walked up to the playard where the baby was thrashing around, getting red-faced as their little fists curled up in indignation. “So, I’m going to try something. And I’d really appreciate it if you don’t, you know, scream bloody murder at me, okay?” I asked as I scooped my hands under the tiny body and carefully pulled the baby into my arms like I’d seen everyone else doing.
“There you go. I’m not so scary, right?” I asked as I started to gently rock side to side in some natural-born instinct. “Oh. Oh, no,” I said as the grumbles started up again.
I panicked.
And just started to sing.
Was it one of my lounge songs instead of a lullaby? Yep. But you had to go with your talents.
The baby looked up at me with curious eyes for a long moment before letting out a big yawn, all gummy jaws and squishy cheeks.
