Chapter 31

THIRTY-ONE

Sabella

Atinkle of crockery pulls me from a deep sleep. I blink and take in the big bed with the cream linen and the oil paintings of landscapes on the wall. A masculine scent of citrus and cedar hangs in the air. It takes me a moment to remember.

I'm in the old house, in Angelo's room.

Golden light tinted with rose fans through the window. The sounds that woke me pull my attention to the lounge area by the fireplace. Heidi is bent over the coffee table. She straightens from depositing a tray and smiles when we make eye contact.

"Angelo didn't want me to wake you, but it's almost dinnertime and you haven't eaten all day. You need your strength to recover. Your body needs the fuel now more than ever." She picks up a bowl and a spoon and carries them to me. "How are you feeling?"

I wince when I push up to rest my back against the headboard. "I'm okay."

"I made chicken soup. I let it cool down a bit so that you don't burn your mouth. Would you like me to feed you?"

"That's kind of you to offer, but I'll be fine."

She hands me the bowl and the spoon. "My mother always made me chicken soup when I was under the weather." Ironing out her apron, she adds, "Not that I'm comparing what happened to you to a cold or a little coughing. I just wanted to make you some comfort food."

My stomach growls, agreeing with Heidi that it needs food. "That's very kind of you. Comfort food is important. Mashed banana and peanut butter on toast are my go-to food when I need some nutritional comfort." I take a small sip of the broth. It's creamy and rich with sliced mushrooms and diced chicken. "It's delicious. Thank you, Heidi."

"You're welcome, dear." A scowl hardens her mouth. "Those bastards did a number on you."

The mention of those men and what they took from me threatens to make the food push up in my throat, so I brush the memory aside and make light of the hurt that tears me apart. "That bad, huh? I haven't looked in the mirror yet."

Pulling a chair closer, she sits down. "Don't you worry. The bruises will fade, and you'll be as pretty as ever. We just have to make sure that you get enough rest and don't overuse your brain. It's not good for a concussion. I told the kids to be quiet so that you could rest, but you know how they are. They can't remain still for long."

The worry that never left me worms its way to the surface again. "How are the kids?"

"Those rascals?" She grins. "They're already up to their usual mischief. Angelo had a tough time stopping them from barging in here. They whined about seeing you every ten minutes."

I process the quietness of the house. "Where are they now?"

"Angelo is playing soccer with the boys, and Sophie is goalie. He wanted to give you time to eat in peace."

"I prefer those little busy bodies to peace. I miss them." I lower the spoon. "I was so worried when Angelo told me what happened."

"That makes two of us." She frowns. "It's over now, and the kids don't seem too traumatized. As I said, they're already up to no good again. étienne smuggled a mouse into the house. Can you believe it?"

"A mouse? How on Earth did he manage that?"

"He caught it behind the garages in a trap he made from sticks and old mesh. I should've known he was up to something when he asked me for a piece of cheese."

The idea makes me grin. "The poor mouse."

"He thought he could teach it tricks and carry it around on his shoulder like a tame mouse." She scoffs. "The mouse escaped the minute it could, and étienne didn't tell us because he was scared he'd get into trouble. I realized there was a rodent in the house when I found holes chewed into the bags of flour and boxes of cereal in the pantry. I had to throw most of the food away. étienne only came clean when I threatened to put out mouse traps."

I can't help but laugh, but I quickly swallow it down when my ribs protest. "What did Angelo say?"

"He said he'd get him a hand-raised, vaccinated mouse from a proper breeder and a decent mouse cage with a shelter and toys." She folds her hands on her lap. "Then Sophie reminded him she wanted a puppy, at which Johan said if étienne can have a mouse and Sophie a puppy, he wants a boa constrictor."

I suppress another laugh. "What about Guillaume? What does he want?"

She lifts her gaze to the ceiling. "He wants to learn to play the piano. Apparently, his music teacher is a huge inspiration."

"At least that's easily doable," I say with a chuckle.

She stands. "As you can imagine, Angelo has his hands full, but we wouldn't want it any other way." Giving my empty bowl an approving look, she asks, "Would you like more soup?"

"No, thank you. I can't eat another bite."

"I'll tell Angelo you finished dinner so that he can bring the kids up to say goodnight," she says as she collects the tray before adding on her way to the door, "Call me if you need anything."

"I appreciate that."

The door closes on her warm smile.

The food and the long nap restored my strength. If I don't move too much, I don't feel pain. At least not physically. The hurt that comes from a deep sense of loss is far more devastating.

The stampede that sounds in the hallway pulls me from the dark thought. The big, sturdy old house trembles under the onslaught of the little feet.

Sophie's voice reaches me through the closed door. "Me first."

"No, me," Guillaume cries out.

"Stop pushing me," Sophie yells.

Angelo's tone is stern. "Everyone behaves or no one sees Sabella. She's hurt, remember? You can't storm in there like a herd of cattle."

"Sophie stepped on my foot," Guillaume whines. "She did it on purpose."

Sophie's reply is heated. "You were in my way."

"Why does she get to go in first?" étienne asks.

"I loved Sabella first," Sophie replies.

"One at a time," Angelo says. "You can all go in if you calm down."

"I'm calm," Guillaume says.

I can't stop a smile from curving my lips. Their bickering reminds me a lot of Ryan, Mattie, and me when we were young.

Angelo opens the door. His tall body fills the frame. Our gazes lock across the distance. Something I can't name passes between us. All I know is that for once, it's not animosity. On the contrary, the feeling is pleasant.

His smile is soft, but the ever-present strain shows in the lines of his eyes and mouth. "Can we come in?"

"Of course. You shouldn't have let me sleep for so long."

He enters. "The doctor said sleep is the best medicine for you."

The kids file in behind him, all but tiptoeing to the bed.

Sophie stops next to me. "How are you feeling, Sabella?"

I caress her cheek. "Much better now that you're here."

She studies me with a tilted face. "Are you our stepmom, Sabella?"

The question takes me by surprise. I glance at Angelo, who crosses his arms and gives me an apologetic shrug.

"Technically, Angelo is your uncle, so that makes me your aunt." I look at Angelo again. "I guess."

"She's our aunt by marriage, Sophie," Johan says with an air of importance.

Sophie's face scrunches up with a frown. "Does that make your mother our grandaunt, Sabella?"

"I suppose you could say so."

"Then we're your mother's family by marriage too?" she asks.

Puzzled, I say, "Why are you asking?"

"I don't want someone to take us away from you. Can you adopt us, Sabella? Then Angelo can be our guardian, and you can be our mommy. That will make your mommy our grandmother."

Angelo places a hand on her shoulder. "No one is going to take you away from Sabella. Now, say goodnight and give her a kiss. It's time for dinner and homework."

étienne pouts. "I don't want to do homework. I don't like letters."

"We're going to do a few exercises together, young man. If you don't learn your letters, you won't be able to read."

"I can show him," Sophie says. "Sabella taught me a rhyme that helps me to remember the alphabet."

"I don't want to," étienne says, stamping his foot.

"It's one of those things you're just going to have to do," Angelo says. "How are you going to read the instructions to assemble the cage for your mouse or the food dosage on the box if you don't learn the alphabet?"

Looking alarmed, étienne stands taller. "Sabella, can you teach me the rhyme too?"

"It's easy." Guillaume rolls his eyes. "I learned it in one day."

"Until Sabella is stronger, Heidi and I will help you," Angelo says. "Go wash up for dinner. Heidi made lasagna, and we don't want the food to get cold."

Sophie climbs onto the bed and kisses my cheek before hopping down. "Angelo said your mommy is coming to visit. I'll draw her a picture so that she doesn't feel scared when she has to sleep in a strange bed."

"That's very kind of you." I brush a wisp of hair from her forehead. "I'm sure she'd like that very much."

A chorus of, "Good night, Sabella," follows as the younger boys run for the door.

"Remember what I said," Angelo calls after them, his tone strict. "No running in the house."

They slow down to a walk, stealing glances at him from over their shoulders. The minute they're out of sight, their small feet beat the floor as they break into a run again.

Angelo chuckles. "Now I understand why my mother used to ask us if our ears were vases when we were young."

I smile. "She did?"

He grins. "She once plucked the stalk off a zinnia and stuck the flower in my ear. She told me if I didn't use my ears for listening, we might as well use them for vases."

I almost laugh but remember in time that it hurts. "How are you coping?"

"With the kids?" His eyes sparkle with humor. "I suppose not too badly." A frown pleats his brow as amusement makes place for concern. He glances at the door, and then goes over and closes it before walking back to the bed. "Sophie has been asking a lot of questions about her place in the family. She seems to be going through a phase where she needs to understand where she fits in."

"It's normal. She's been through a lot of changes recently. She moved in with you, and her great-grandfather died."

"There's another subject I need to bring up with them, but I'm not sure how to approach it."

"Regarding what?"

"Their parents." He lowers his voice. "They're dead."

My heart squeezes. "Those poor kids. Too much has already happened in their short lives. How did you eventually find out?"

"Sophie showed me a cave where the old man kept a crate full of jewelry. I found their bodies there."

"What?" I stare at him. "How did they die?"

"The old man shot them. One of my contacts in the forensics department matched the bullet shells to the shotgun I gave him. I didn't want to say anything before I knew where the investigation was going, but the police closed the case yesterday."

"Oh my God. What are you going to tell them?"

"I wanted to talk to you first. Obviously, they need to know their parents are dead. I gave the old man a funeral for their sake. It makes sense to do the same for their parents." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "But what do I tell them about the cause of their death?"

I contemplate the question. "Will it do any good to tell them the truth?"

He drops his hand and blows out a sigh. "It sure as hell won't change anything. I'm afraid being honest will do more harm than good."

"Then just tell them the truth that you can. Simply say that you were looking for them, and that you found out they passed away. I agree that saddling them with the brutality of a murder at their tender age seems unnecessarily cruel, especially if their own great-grandfather is the culprit."

He nods. "That's what I thought, but I still wanted to talk it through with you."

"Would you like me to be there when you tell them?"

"I'd appreciate that. They can do with the support. Especially Sophie." Pinning me with a stare, he says, "We still need to talk about your trips to the village. Don't think I forgot."

My stomach contracts at the dark note in his voice. "You know why I did it."

Narrowing his eyes, he commands, "Tell me."

"Why? What does it matter now?"

"Humor me, Sabella."

I blow out a sigh. "It started when I needed a shampoo for lice."

"That never should've happened." The line of his jaw turns hard. "My cousin was supposed to have the house cleaned."

"It happened. It's over. We need to move on. Why insist on?—"

"Let me finish. I know why you did odd jobs in the village. You wanted to earn money to buy a pregnancy test. You wanted to buy birth control pills. Am I right?"

"Yes," I admit with a whisper. "Who told you?"

"Roch." Outwardly, he appears calm, but tension emanates from him. "What kind of jobs did you do?"

I flick out my tongue to wet my dry lips. "Is this really necessary?"

"What jobs did you do, Sabella? It's a small town. You have firsthand experience of how quickly news travels. I'm going to hear it whether I want to or not, but I prefer to hear it from you."

I swallow. "Are you angry?"

His voice softens. "Only with myself."

"What's the point of knowing?"

"I need to know because it concerns you, and everything that concerns you is my business."

Heaving another sigh, I say, "I walked Mrs. Paoli's dog, and I cleaned Mr. Martin's house. I also did a few grocery runs for Mrs. Filippi."

"Dog walker, housemaid, and delivery woman," he muses, not seeming pleased.

"Do you think those jobs are beneath me just because my surname is Russo now?"

"No," he says, watching me with a level gaze. "Those jobs are beneath you because it's my responsibility to take care of you."

"I did what I had to do. For me, it was about survival. Going to the village kept me sane. Don't you understand that?"

"I do, cara. The blame for what you were forced to do is on me." His black eyes glitter. "However, you will never risk your life like that again. Walking down the mountain is fucking dangerous. I die a thousand times when I think what could've happened to you."

"My friends in the village gave me an electric bike."

Something like guilt passes over his features. "Did they now?"

"I left it by the river. I want you to bring it back."

"From now on, I'll drive you if you want to go to the village."

"They went to great lengths to recondition it with a battery. I'm not going to thank them by letting it rust under a bush."

"Fine." He crosses his arms. "But you won't go anywhere on that bike alone and never again down the valley. When I'm not here, a driver will take you to town. You're never to go anywhere without your bodyguards."

After the nightmare we all lived through, I'm not going to protest. I only have one condition. "No more stalking like with Roch in South Africa."

"There's a difference between stalking and protecting someone, but no. No one is going to stalk you. Wherever you go, an army will follow. So you better get used to it. And lastly, you're never to beg someone else for money again. You have full access to my bank account and our money." He takes a gold credit card from his pocket and puts it on the nightstand. "There's enough for you never to have to work unless you want to."

"Work?" My lips part. "Do you mean that?"

"First, you need to finish your studies. We have to talk about the logistics. The nearest university where you can complete your degree is in Marseille."

Breathless, I repeat, "Do you mean that?"

"It's always been the plan. It's what I had in mind even when my mother was organizing our wedding. Then things happened." He pauses. "Things I can't change. But I want to do right by you. I want to give you everything you deserve, Sabella, even if I don't deserve you."

Tears well up in my eyes. I forgave him. I chose him. Yet moving on isn't as easy as that. It's going to take time. I want to give him a chance to prove himself to me, and for that I'll need patience. We'll both need patience.

"I want to leave everything that's happened behind and start over with you, cara. I can't build this family without you. I want to make a new family with you." His features darken. "But before that can happen, there's something I must do first."

"What?" I ask, staring up at his face.

Despite the harshness of his expression that gives him that fallen angel look, his touch is gentle as he cups my cheek. It's both reassuring and frightening. It's as if he's preparing me for bad news.

When he pulls his hand away, coldness washes over me. I want to ask him not to go, but I know whatever he's planning on doing must be done. Instinctively, I know it's the closure we need.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves the room. My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for his return.

He doesn't leave me in suspense for long. He comes back carrying a small cooler box. Glancing at me from over his shoulder, he locks the door. My gaze homes in on the action. My pulse spikes as he walks to the bed and puts the cooler box on my lap like a cat who offers its owner a dead mouse. He doesn't tell me to open it. He simply stands there, letting me decide.

I already decided. I made my decision when I found out I was pregnant. I made an oath when I believed I was dying.

It's all or nothing now.

I look at his handsome face as I accept his offering and unzip the box. What I see in his eyes are respect and approval. I see the things I thought he'd never give me, things he reserved for other people only. I see us, the way it can be, working a room like the Powells. I see him looking at me like Thomas Powell looked at his wife. Like a man who admires a woman. That is what I hold onto when I lower my gaze and flip back the lid of the box.

The world around me fades away. My thoughts and senses condense into a single awareness. My sole focus is on the object in front of me.

On a bed of ice lies the hand of a man. It's a hand I'll never forget, one with dark hair growing from raised follicles and a black picture of a cross and a dagger tattooed on the back. The skin isn't tanned like in the mental picture burned into my mind but blueish pale. Judging by the shredded flesh and splintered bone, the hand wasn't neatly chopped off. No, it was hacked off by a blunt or jagged object, maybe a saw or a serrated blade.

Revulsion pushes up inside me, but it's not due to the gruesome sight. My repulsion stems from my memories. Angelo's grisly gift fills me with relief and satisfies my dark need for justice. No, not justice. Vengeance. I'm not sure who or what that makes me. I only know I'm not the same woman Angelo married.

My husband's voice is clipped. His words are cold and hard. "He suffered."

I meet his gaze squarely, showing him who I am and what I've become. I want him to see me. I want to know if he'll still look at me as someone he admires if he sees into my soul. I want to know if he'll be able to kiss me and hold me in his arms if he sees the darkness of my mind and the imperfections of my heart.

My reply is simple. "Good."

The light in his eyes doesn't change. His opinion of me doesn't falter. If anything, his respect climbs a notch. He accepts my gratitude for his offering and the warped satisfaction I derive from the vengeance without questions or judgement, taking the box and zipping it up. Strangely, the macabre act ties us closer together, forging a new bond between us.

"I wanted you to see that before I get rid of the evidence," he says.

"I'm glad."

"Lavigne is dead too."

I give a start. "You killed him?"

"For what he did to you."

"He was a police officer," I exclaim. "There will be consequences."

His tone is confident. "There won't be."

My mouth is so dry it's difficult to swallow.

"You need to understand one thing." He steps closer, towering over me. "This will be the fate of any man or woman who lays a finger on you." His eyes tighten. "Whether that be with the intention of delivering harm or pleasure." His touch is possessive as he wraps his fingers around my neck and brushes a thumb over the vein that pulses under my flesh. "Because you see, cara, no one touches what's mine."