Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Saverio

“ Y ou’re making progress, Mr. De Luca,” my physiotherapist says with an encouraging smile while stripping the protective cover from the massage table after our four o’clock session. “In a few weeks, we can exchange the crutches for a cane.”

I wipe the sweat from my brow with an exercise towel. “By the eighteenth of April?”

“That’s rather specific.” His eyebrows pinch together even as his lips quirk. “What happens on the eighteenth of April?”

“My wife’s birthday,” I say in a gruff voice.

“Ah.” He continues to pack away his equipment. “It depends on how quickly you recover your mobility and muscle strength, but you shouldn’t overdo it by pushing yourself too hard. That may result in new injuries. The right balance is important.” He straightens from zipping up his bag. “That’s what I’m here for.”

I grunt, taking the crutches where they lean against the back of the sofa.

“You already manage fine without the wheelchair,” he says. “But don’t hesitate to use the chair if your knee needs a break. It’s not a weakness to let your injury rest, you know.”

“Yes,” I say, having no such intention.

We agree on a time for tomorrow’s appointment before he leaves. Then I use the downstairs bathroom to shower. When I brush my hair in front of the mirror, I take in the scars and the mismatching acrylic eye. The production of the custom-made eye has started. In a month’s time, I’ll have an eye that looks exactly like my own. The only difference is that I won’t be able to see through it. I looked into bionic eye implants, but the research is still in its early days.

Turning my face to the right, I inspect my reflection. From this angle, with the damaged side of my head in the shadows and the left half untouched, I look perfect. Anyone seeing me from this side won’t guess there’s anything wrong with my face. It’s a cruel illusion.

A knock falls on the door.

“Sav,” Livy calls. “Are you in there?”

I pull on a pair of tracksuit pants and fit the eyepatch before opening the door.

“Ah.” She smiles. “There you are.”

“I didn’t hear you get in.”

“We’re a little early. It’s been a long day.”

My gut tightens. “Is Anya okay?”

“Sure. She went upstairs to run a bath. She needs a little relaxing.”

“I ordered dinner. It’s in the warming-drawer.” Taking in her off-shoulder T-shirt with Flashdance written in bold letters over a big lightning bolt on the front and the baggy exercise pants, I ask, “Going somewhere?”

“I have a stage dancing class. Claire is in her crib.” She walks backward, giving me a wave. “She shouldn’t wake up for another two hours.”

I grab my crutches and follow her into the hallway. “Who’s driving you?”

“I’ll get an Uber,” she says, donning her coat and taking a scarf with tussles from the closet.

“You won’t.” I open the front door for her. “My driver will take you.” I nod at the man on duty, a silent instruction not only to summon Kevin but also to send a guard with them to keep Livy safe.

“Thanks.” She goes on tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “You’re still a gentleman.”

I still disagree, but I give her a half smile and see her to the car.

When I’ve gone back inside, I hover in the entrance for a moment, pricking up my ear. The house is quiet. I move to the staircase. If I focus hard, I can hear the sound of running water.

Leaving Anya to her bath, I go to the study and install myself behind the desk to go over the documents my financial adviser emailed. I created a trust fund for Claire to ensure all her financial needs are taken care of until the day she comes of age. An education policy will cover her tuition fees. There’s enough to send her to the best schools and university. My life insurance will be sufficient for Anya to live comfortably as well as afford the best security for the rest of her life. She won’t have to spend all her time at an office, doing my books, instead of being a mother to her daughter.

Happy that all of that is in place, I turn my attention to After Dark. Dante will inherit my shares. He has the savvy to make a success of the business. In case both of us don’t make it out, the shares are to be sold and the profits shared between the men. The house is paid off, so Anya won’t have to worry about settling a big bond. I sold the Corvette for a million. It’s worth a lot more, but I was in a hurry. I couldn’t wait for a better offer. The money is enough to see us through for a while and to pay for the extra weapons I ordered.

I’m nitpicking through the stock list when Claire’s crying reaches me through the open door of the study.

I still.

Is Anya in the bath already?

Guilt assaults me when I imagine her getting out of the water, dripping wet, and hurriedly drying herself off to tend to her daughter when she needs that downtime more than anything.

My gut twists as the crying continues, yet I remain frozen to the spot in a bout of panic, torn between running upstairs to soothe Claire and staying the hell away.

What if Claire chokes?

What if she cries so much she throws up?

She can drown in her own vomit.

Fuck.

The fitful pitch of her sweet baby voice reaches a new crescendo. I don’t need a monitor to hear that. The desperation in that cry is loud enough to travel through the house.

Flying out of the chair, I grab the crutches. Forget about the stairs. It’ll take too long. I rush to the elevator, get inside, and slam a palm on the button.

The door closes in fucking slow motion. All the while, that crying turns more urgent, ripping into my chest.

I peel out on the second floor before the door has completely opened and swing the crutches with every ounce of strength in my arms. The door to the nursery stands open. I stop in the door frame, sweat running down my temples. There’s no sign of Anya. Claire’s tiny body is visible through the bars of the crib. She kicks angrily with her short little legs while flailing her arms.

Shit.

I hover, my panic turning up a notch.

Making a split-second decision, I cross the floor. I stop over the crib, staring down at her red face and frantic sobbing. I act out of pure instinct, not thinking about what I’m doing when I lean the crutches on the side of the crib and reach down to lift her into my arms.

I’m not prepared for how light she is. I had no idea she weighed so little. Nothing almost. Neither am I prepared for how fragile she feels when I press her frail, delicate body against my chest. She goes quiet at the contact. I cradle her against me with her head in my palm. She’s so small my fingers can easily overlap around her skull. My heart expands with something foreign and frightening, something that feels a lot like the first time I got onto a plane.

I drink in her smell, that innocent scent of baby powder and shampoo. She fusses a little, letting me know with sniffling sobs she’s not happy.

“There, sweet angel,” I coo. “What’s the matter? Is your tummy empty? Is your diaper wet?”

She makes another baby sound, fisting her minuscule fingers into my T-shirt. I home in on that hand, on every perfectly shaped little fingernail, and I’m dumbstruck with the miracle I hold in my arms.

I brush a fingertip over her doll-sized knuckles, admiring the softness of her flawless skin. Letting go of my T-shirt, she wraps those impossibly small fingers around my forefinger in a surprisingly strong grip.

Fuck.

I’m a goner.

My heart threatens to burst with more unknown feelings. Just like that, Claire De Luca conquers my soul. All five pounds of her. She already has me wrapped around her finger. She doesn’t even have to try. I’m all hers, ready to lay down my life for her.

She makes a gurgling sound, nestling against my chest as if she belongs there.

I rock her gently. “There, angel. Daddy will take care of you.”

Cradling her in my arm, I lower her gently to look at her face. She has Anya’s lips and nose. The resemblance is striking. My ribcage squeezes when I think about a little girl with red pigtails and freckles chasing butterflies in the garden. Because I may not be here long enough to see that.

“But I’ll love you for longer,” I whisper, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. “Into forever.”

She turns her face to mine, searching for the source of the sound, and when she fixes her gaze on me, her little body goes rigid. The hold on my finger disappears as she balls her hands into fists and goes red in the face while crying at the top of her lungs.

Startled, it takes me a second to come to my senses. To realize. And then I understand. Then I know what she sees.

My jaw clenches involuntarily, my anger directed at myself as I try to remove the object that causes her distress as quickly as possible by laying her down in her crib and putting distance between us.

“Saverio, no.”

My wife appears at my side.

“It’s not what you think.” Anya touches my arm. “She doesn’t know you, and she got a surprise, that’s all.”

I turn the battered side of my face away.

Anya’s tone is pleading. “Sav.”

I shake off her touch.

I don’t have to look at her to sense her hurt at the rejection, but I do it anyway because I can’t help myself. She’s wearing a bathrobe knotted around her waist, her hair hanging sopping wet around her shoulders. She should dry it before she catches a cold. I want to tell her to go do that. Instead, I take my crutches.

I’ve been an idiot.

“Sav,” she says again.

“I’m sorry.”

For everything.

For the murder she wasn’t supposed to see.

For what she does to my body, provoking this obsession in me.

But most of all, I’m sorry that I can’t be the man they need.

She bends over the crib and picks Claire up, shushing her as she looks at me with tears glistening in those whisky-colored eyes.

I can handle many things, but not her tears.

Cupping her face, I wipe a thumb over her dry cheek where many more tears are going to run in the future. I take responsibility for every one of those tears. They’re mine. They’re my doing. I carry that burden, hoping that one day, a better man will put a smile on her face.

“Saverio,” she says when I turn for the door.

This time, I don’t look at her. If I do, I may not be able to leave.

“Stop, please,” she says, her voice breaking.

I don’t. I close the door, and I don’t stop until I’m in my study where I lock myself in.