I grab my purse and keys, doing a mental checklist. Phone. Wallet. Bus pass. Eye drops in case Leon’s contacts bother him.
The rain has softened to a drizzle, but I pull Leon’s hood up anyway, holding tight to his hand as we walk to the bus stop. He chatters the whole way, about the puddles, about a dog he sees across the street, about whether Mason will let him play with his new fire truck.
I make the right noises at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere. Watching for a tall man half concealed by an umbrella, his golden hair gleaming in the shadows.
The bus arrives with a hiss of brakes, and I lift Leon up the steps.
Twenty minutes later, Leon’s contacts are out and he’s playing with his cousin, and I’m sitting in the kitchen with my mom and Rosa.
Rain streaks down Rosa’s kitchen window, but inside, everything is warm. The light above the kitchen table glows yellow. Mom has set out a tin of homemade cookies. The kids are playing in the other room.
I wrap my hands around my mug of tea and let the heat seep into my fingers. Across from me, Rosa is gesturing with a cookie, discussing Carly’s birthday party, which is going to be princess themed. Next to me, Mom is offering ideas for the cake that she’ll bake and decorate. Heart-shaped with lacy piping, or a tiered sponge with glittery flowers.
I should be joining in on the conversation and enjoying this moment of cozy family peace, but I can’t focus on their words. They wash over me like the rain against the window, a background noise to the thoughts I can’t stop.
Cristiano in my apartment. Him standing in my living room, too tall, too broad, taking up all the space and all the air. The way his amber eyes missed nothing. My furniture, my photos, my son.
The way he looked at me.
He’s different now. All sharp edges and controlled stillness. His jaw is more defined, his shoulders broader, his presence heavier with a kind of authority that wasn’t there before. Five years in Italy turned the bleeding, pleading nineteen-year-old who pressed his bloody palms against the car window into something else entirely.
Something more dangerous.
I know it, even though he hasn’t done anything.
Yet.
But his eyes are the same. That’s what I can’t stop thinking about. His eyes burning into mine with the same intensity they always had. Like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.
I take a sip of tea, staring at nothing, lost in a jumble of memories and emotions.
If he decides he still wants me, his methods will be the same too. Patient. Manipulative. Methodical.
“Mina?”
I blink. Mom and Rosa are both looking at me, their conversation paused.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you wanted another cookie.” Rosa pushes the tin toward me. “You’ve been staring at the same spot on the table for five minutes.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m just tired.” I reach for another cookie, even though I don’t want it.
Mom’s brows pinch together in concern. She knows me too well. All my tells, all my deflections. She’s been watching me like a hawk ever since the day she bundled me out of the Montoni mansion and we fled to Rosa’s in her car. It’s guilt, I think. She had no idea there was something serious going on between me and Cristiano, and she didn’t know what he was capable of. How could she? I never confided in her what he was really like, and Cristiano is so good at hiding his true nature.
“You’re not worrying about Mr. Montoni, are you?”
The name is so jarring. Mr. Montoni. But that’s what he is now, my mother’s employer, the new master of the house she’s worked in for nearly twenty years. To others, he’s Don Cristiano, with all the power and violence that title implies. A world away from the person I hoped he was, a sweet boy who gave me a snow globe and so tenderly and devastatingly seduced me.
I open my mouth to tell them about Cristiano showing up at my apartment a few days ago, but I hesitate. The clock on thewall tells me that there isn’t time to talk about this now. I have to head for work in a few minutes.
Besides, I already know what they’re going to say. They’ll be open-mouthed with horror and urge me to stay away from Cristiano. I already know I have to stay away from him. I don’t want to be anywhere near him. I have Leon to protect.
“No,” I assure them. “No, of course not. I was thinking about work.”
Mom and Rosa exchange a glance. The kind of glance that says they’re not sure if they believe me, but they’re not going to push.
“We could get a restraining order against him,” Rosa suggests.
