Chapter 23
Dante
Anna can barely stay upright as I guide her into the back of an SUV. Her body collapses inward as if she’s made of loose string instead of bones, and her hair is unkempt and greasy. She isnothinglike the woman I spent the night with almost five years ago.
The only reason I lifted her into my arms outside Lucia’s apartment is because Camille is asleep only doors down. I couldn’t risk her waking to her mother’s slurring apologies and collapsed composure. My act was not in tenderness for the woman who once captivated me enough to remain celibate for years. It was the swift, quiet removal of a threat.
I’m tempted to tell the driver to take Anna to the nearest hotel, leaving her in his care, but my lawyers—yes, more than one—warned me earlier this week to play nice.
Until Anna notarizes the custody papers she left unsigned when she ran an hour after I deposited millions into her account, I have to be the better man.
With this in mind, instead of tossing bills at the driver for guaranteed discretion, I slip into the SUV behind Anna. I grind my back molars together when her head instantly comes to rest on my shoulder.
As we navigate through the streets of Carlisle, Anna’s words spill out in a tangled stream that hardly resembles speech. The driver keeps his eyes on the road, but I feel his discomfort each time Anna’s voice rises.
“I made a mistake,” she mumbles, dragging out each word. “When I accepted your offer… I shouldn’t have. I should have said no. I should’ve fought. We could’ve been a family, Dante.” She peers up at me, blinking back tears. “We still can.”
I shift my eyes to the scenery whizzing by my window, jaw clenched. “We tried. There’s no going back.”
Her laugh is brittle. “You never tried. Not really. You kept comparing every exchange we had to that one stupid night. You wanted the girl in the costume. Catwoman to your Batman.”
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. “I went to the party as Zorro.”
Rolling her eyes, she waves her hand dismissively. “It was a metaphor. I never said you attended the event as Batman.”
That’s a lie, but I’d quickly learned that correcting her is pointless.
Everything about this conversation is pointless, except for the part where I have to stay calm enough to avoid another scene playing out in the tabloids.
The Carusos have a loyal fanbase, so paparazzi chase us whenever we’re in public. Anna exploited their disregard for privacy constantly during that turbulent month I tried to make things work with her. She staged scenes in public, all false and misleading, and the following morning, my alleged failures as a father and partner were splashed across the headlines.
With Anna’s resurrection forcing our custody dispute to the courts, I want to avoid negative press.
I strive to keep my composure respectful. She is Camille’s mother, so I owe her at least that much, but her actions make it difficult. She’s drunk and so restless that every instinct in me is on edge. Her index finger constantly glides under her nose, and her knee bounces as her eyes dart around the cab of the SUV, searching for something.
“Have you taken anything tonight?”
Her head snaps to mine, her expression offended. “No. I’m clean. I told you I’m clean now. That’s why I came back.”
I don’t believe her. She can barely keep her eyes open, and her movements are jittery and unfocused. I won’t mention how her voice keeps slipping into that frantic, breathless pitch I’ve heard too many times, or I’ll forget I’m trying to be a better man for my child.
“One of the conditions for me to even consider supervised visits while the court sorts out custody is drug-free blood tests.”
Her anger cuts through the fog. “Supervised visits? I’m her mother!”
“And Camille is a child who deserves to be safe.” My reply is snappier than I intend, but it can’t be helped. The truth is fucking ugly, and I’m done pretending it isn’t. “Do you want me to list what her medical reports show? The injuries? The neglect? Things no child should ever endure, butourfucking daughter did.”
She flinches at my raised words, but I keep going—not to punish her, but because she refuses to face the past.
“Fourteen scars. Six fractures that healed incorrectly. Multiple signs of concussions and neglect, and that isn’t even everything. That is only what the tests show. They don’t show how you hurt her here.” I whack my chest with my fist. “And here.” This time, I jab my finger at my temple.
Her eyes fill with tears, but I don’t look away. This has been a long time coming.
“You should be grateful I’m even letting this go to court,” I add, voice low. “Anyone else would be dead. You may not like being judged by thatone stupid night”—I air-quote my last three words—“but what you don’t realize is that one night is theonlything keeping you alive.”
She glances down, her jaw trembling. For a moment, I see the version of her I once believed in, where she could have been a better mother if life had been kinder to her.
If she’d been stronger, everything might not have gone so wrong.
