Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

Sabella

My husband doesn't give me a chance to tell him someone—I suspect a child—broke into the house. He slams the door behind him and goes without locking it, leaving me used and naked and drenched in his cum in the kitchen.

I feel a mess.

I am a mess.

I don't get it. Last night, when he asked for my advice, he gave me the impression that my opinion mattered to him. He gave me the idea that we could have peace if not happiness, but that notion now lies shattered at my feet.

I should've known better than to hope for something less ugly than the hate between us. I've been stupid and na?ve. It's not a mistake I'll repeat. I won't make myself that vulnerable again.

When I've scavenged the energy to peel myself off the table, I shower and cook pasta for dinner. My grumbling stomach insists that I feed it. After eating, I dress in warm clothes and go outside to look for the child that climbed through my window, but I don't have a torch, and the night is moonless. I almost break my neck twice by falling over the rocks. When I nearly walk over the edge of a cliff, I admit defeat and turn home. I make sure the windows are closed but leave the one that was forced open a crack. Then I settle on the sofa with a blanket and wait.

After spending a sleepless night in the lounge, I get up early and resume my search.

Soon, I'm despondent. There are no traces of a child or anyone else for that matter. The soil is too hard and the terrain too rocky for shoes to leave prints. I follow the river for most of the morning but find no other houses or signs of life.

By the time I reach the village, I'm exhausted.

Mrs. Paoli looks a lot better when she answers her door.

"My dear, you look like you walked ten miles," she says with a hand pressed over her heart.

She's not far off.

"Would you like a glass of water?" she asks.

I show her my water bottle. "I'm good, but thank you for the offer."

"Corinne told me there are kumquats at the market. Do you mind picking me up half a kilo while you walk Diva?"

"Of course not."

"You better go straight away. Most of the vendors will be gone already. They only stay until late morning, but a few hang around until the afternoon." She takes an envelope from her pocket. "Here. You can buy Diva a treat with the change. There's a lady that sells homemade dog biscuits at the market. Diva loves them." She clutches the edges of her robe together as she leans outside for a glance down the street. "Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Martin needs a little help with house cleaning. He's a retired widower. If you're interested, he lives in the old mill next to the river."

"I appreciate that you thought about me."

"You're welcome, my dear." She hands me Diva's leash before addressing the dog in a sing-song voice. "Come, baby. Look who's here."

Diva barks and wags her tail.

The market is a short walk from Mrs. Paoli's house. When I get there, most vendors have already packed up, but I manage to find a clementine farmer that set a bag of kumquats aside.

"It's for Mrs. Paoli," I explain.

"In that case," he says, spitting the tobacco he was chewing on the ground.

He's weighing the kumquats when I spot a bald head in the crowd. The man is tall, standing out above the rest of the shoppers. My heartbeat quickens. I haven't seen him in a while, not since South Africa. I may be mistaken. It may be someone else, but then he turns around and our gazes lock across the distance.

He freezes.

Shit.

The vendor hands me the bag and mentions a price, but I don't pay attention to what he says. I give him the money without breaking eye contact with the man at the fruit stall. The habitual dark suit is absent. He looks different in a sweater and a pair of jeans.

The vendor drops a few coins of change on my palm.

Mumbling a rushed, "Thank you," I make my way toward the fruit stall just as the man turns and stalks away.

"Come, Diva," I say, breaking into a jog.

We only catch up with him at the fountain.

"Roch, wait," I call after him.

He stops dead. Turns. His eyes are cold as he measures me.

"Hi," I say, out of breath from running. "What are you doing here?"

He looks pointedly at the bag in my hand. "Same as you."

My heart is beating too fast to think. If he tells my husband he saw me here, I'll get into trouble. The last thing I want is for Angelo to put an end to my excursions.

When he makes as if to turn, I utter the first thing that pops into my mind. "Aren't you working?"

He glares at me. "Didn't you hear? Your husband fired me."

I reel with shock. "He did?"

"You don't have to act so surprised." He smirks. "You must be happy about it."

"I'm not," I say quickly. "I didn't know."

Sneering, he spins away and continues to cross the square.

I go after him, grabbing his arm. "Roch, wait."

He stops and looks at where I'm gripping his sleeve.

I let go. "I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for acting like a brat. My behavior was uncalled for. The day was just getting to me with everything that happened."

"Don't try to justify your actions."

"It's not an excuse, I know. I wasn't aware he fired you. I never thought he would, not because of that." I want to say I'll put in a good word for him with my husband, but I'm the last person my husband will listen to, let alone please. "I'm so sorry, Roch. I mean it."

"Yeah." He snorts. "Whatever you say."

"Roch," I say when he attempts to walk away again.

He pauses.

"I, um…" I clear my throat. "My husband doesn't know I'm here."

He only watches me.

I swallow. "I know you don't owe me anything, but I'll appreciate it if you don't mention running into me to him."

His smile is wry. "Don't worry. Mr. Russo and I aren't exactly on speaking terms."

Crumpling the paper bag in my hand, I say, "I truly am sorry."

He huffs a disbelieving laugh and carries on toward the street.

I run to keep up. "Where are you working now?"

He looks at me as if I'm stupid. "In case you haven't noticed, work is scarce around here."

"If I can help in any way?—"

"Have a nice life, Sabella," he says before stomping away.

This time, I don't chase after him. He obviously finds my presence unpleasant, and I can't blame him.

I feel bad for getting him fired, especially since I was the one who provoked him. It had just been such a horrible day. The memory clogs up my throat, but I push it away quickly when tears burn hot behind my eyes. Now isn't the time to think about what happened.

Instead, I go back to the market and find the dog biscuit lady. Diva sits on her hind legs and begs for the treat, which puts a smile back on my face. She gobbles the whole thing up in record time and sniffs around for any crumbs on the ground.

On the way back, I stop to say hi to Mrs. Campana and to repay her with the money I earned from Corinne and Mrs. Paoli.

She waves a hand when I put the bills on the counter. "I said it wasn't necessary."

"Please, I insist. I don't want to take advantage of your kindness."

Taking the money with a sigh, she says, "If it makes you feel better."

"It does. I better return Diva. I'd like to get home before dark."

Her eyebrows pinch together. "Are you still walking up and down that mountain?"

"My feet are my only way of transport for the moment." I give her a bright smile. "I honestly don't mind."

"Gmf. You better get going then. The terrain is dangerous in the dark."

"I'll be fine." I wave on my way to the door. "See you soon."

I deliver Diva and Mrs. Paoli's kumquats with enough time to spare to pay Mr. Martin a visit. It's a detour of about two kilometers. The old mill sits below three rapids on the riverbank. The two-story building is constructed on stilts, the wooden wheel standing on the side. A small boat is attached to a jetty next to the house. Thick greenery surrounds the site. A layer of fog drifts on top of the river, giving the picture a soft, dreamy edge.

A man with stooped shoulders and a weathered face opens the door when I knock. A pipe hangs from the corner of his mouth. Dressed in a pinafore and rubber boots, he reminds me of a picture from my favorite storybook when I was little about a fisherman who saved a whale that had washed up on the shore.

"Yes?" he says in a croaky voice. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Sabella. Mrs. Paoli sent me."

"Ah. Yes." He takes his pipe from his mouth and scratches his head. "Come in, come in."

He shows me into a spacious kitchen with yellow and green wallpaper. "The house is big, but you're young. It shouldn't take you too long to do a bit of dusting and vacuuming." He places a palm on his lower back. "The old body is getting too weak for the work." He taps the pipe against his temple. "The brain still works. It doesn't lack motivation, but you know the saying. The body can't cash the cheques the mind is writing any longer." He laughs at his own joke.

"It's not a problem. When would you like me to start?"

"Whenever you can."

"Tomorrow?"

He pats me on the shoulder and says with a warm light in his watery green eyes, "That'll be perfect. Any time is fine with me. I'm not going anywhere much of the time. If I happen to be out, just come in and carry on with it. You'll find everything you need in the broom closet."

"Did you run the mill?" I ask when he walks me out.

He clicks his tongue. "The mill stood empty for years before I moved in." He points at the boat. "I only bought the place for that."

"For the jetty?"

"The river runs all the way to the sea. I can drive my boat from here to fish where roads don't lead. That's where you find the best catches, where no big trawlers cast their nets and no one else goes."

"That makes sense." I smile. "I better get going. I'll see you tomorrow."

He waves as I climb up the embankment to the road.

On my way to the house, I scout the area next to the river, but I don't see any dwellings where a child could live. An idea takes root in my mind.

At home, I bake a cake. This time, I follow Mrs. Campana's advice and use the oven fan. When the cake comes out of the oven, it's nicely rounded. Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I clap my hands like an excited child. It doesn't look half bad, even if I have to say so myself. I leave it on the windowsill to cool and open the window.

After pulling on a coat, I take one of the recipe books outside and make myself comfortable on a chair in a secluded corner of the veranda from where I have a view of the kitchen window on the side as well as the front of the house.

It doesn't take long before I spot movement in the bushes. A scrawny boy appears from the shrubs, looking left and right before cutting barefoot across the yard. His clothes are tattered, and his small face is dirty. In one hand, he clutches what looks like a makeshift doll with twig arms and rope hair. In the other, he holds a walking stick. He plants the stick in the gravel and creeps to the corner of the house.

At the edge of the veranda, he stretches his neck to look through the lounge window. Then he hops up the steps, surprisingly lithe and quiet on his feet, crosses the veranda, and presses a small hand on the glass as he peers through the kitchen window. He turns his head far to the side, no doubt checking if someone is inside. He's sticking his arm through the window, reaching for the cake, when I speak.

"Would you like a slice?"

He jolts, yanking his hand away and jumping back. He stares at me with wide brown eyes, fear etched on his delicate features.

Not wanting to scare and chase him off with an abrupt movement, I straighten slowly. "Do you like chocolate cake?"

His little chest heaves with breaths as he watches me quietly, frozen to the spot.

"You know what I think? I think it can do with frosting."

His Adam's apple bobs as I go closer.

"What do you think? Would you like to try a slice of cake with chocolate frosting?"

He brings the doll to his mouth and whispers something. The head is made from a wine cork stuck on a stick. Pieces of rope tied around the top of the cork form the hair. Round eyes and a crooked smile drawn with a black felt pen complete the face.

Lifting the doll to his ear, he listens. After a moment, he says with mistrust sparking in his eyes, "Beatrice says maybe."

His high, musical voice catches me by surprise. I study him closer, taking in his dainty bone structure and his short, unevenly cropped auburn hair. Knock me over with a feather. The he-child is a she-child.

"I'm Sabella." I point at the house. "I live here. What's your name?"

"Sophie," she says before whispering to the doll, "It's all right. It can't hurt telling her our names."

"Where do you and Beatrice live, Sophie?"

"By the river."

I glance toward the village. "Down there?"

"Not far from here."

"With your parents?"

"My parents are gone. We lived with my grandfather, but he went back to the camp."

"Is the camp far?"

"It's too far to walk. Grandpa went by truck. A friend came to fetch him."

Dear God. I hope this doesn't mean what I think it does. "Did you stay behind with Beatrice?"

"I don't want to go back to the camp." She clutches the doll in her arms, cradling it against her chest. "I came here to play in the house. Beatrice and I had tea in the garden before they took our teacups away. Beatrice liked it here." Addressing the doll, she says, "Didn't you?"

I remember the broken crockery in the mud, the cracked saucers and teacups without ears. Sweet Jesus.

"Who takes care of you if your grandfather moved back to the camp?" I ask.

She swings from side to side. "My brothers."

"Do they live by the river too?"

She lifts the doll to her ear and listens. "Shh, Beatrice. She's a nice lady. She won't tell the angry man."

I go down on my haunches. "Is Beatrice scared of an angry man?"

"The man who made us move here. He came to see us at the camp. Beatrice says he's scary."

"Do you mean Mr. Russo?"

She only stares at me with a blank expression.

Straightening, I say, "I tell you what. Why don't I help you wash up, and then you and Beatrice can help me make frosting for the cake?"

She shakes her head. "Beatrice doesn't want to wash up. She's scared of water."

"She has nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. I won't let anything happen to her. But she has to wash up if she wants to help in the kitchen. We can't cook or eat with dirty hands, can we?"

She holds the doll next to her ear. "Beatrice says no."

"How about we find Beatrice a new dress to wear? Will she like that?"

Sophie glances at the dirty piece of cloth that's knotted around the stick.

"I bet her hair is shiny when it's clean," I say. "It looks as if she can do with a good shampoo. Why don't you wash her hair? Won't she like that?"

After a moment of conferring with Beatrice, Sophie says, "All right, but Beatrice doesn't like sticking her head under the water."

"She doesn't have to. You can rinse it in a bowl."

"What about that, Beatrice?" she asks. "If you're a good girl, you can have a slice of cake."

"That's right." Holding out my hand, I say, "Come on. It's nice and warm inside."

Sophie puts her small hand in mine. Emotions tighten my chest as I lead the frail child inside. The boy who nicked the cereal and milk was a girl, and this poor girl lives with her brothers somewhere next to the river.

I need to alert Angelo. What will he do? Will he take the kids back to their grandfather? From the little Sophie told me, their grandfather doesn't seem to care much about them. If he did, he'd never have left them behind to fend for themselves. How are the poor kids surviving alone in the open and in the midst of winter?

Sophie glances around. "It looks different."

I stop. "Did you climb through the window to watch television yesterday?"

She averts her gaze.

"I won't be angry, Sophie. I just need to know if it was you."

"Why?" she asks, peeking at me through her eyelashes.

"If it wasn't you, I'll be worried. Then it means someone else was here while I was gone."

She bites her lip. "Are you angry about the popcorn?"

"Of course not. I'm just concerned when I think that you could've burned yourself."

"I know how to make popcorn in the microwave. Johan showed me how to do it. We did it a lot when we lived here."

"You lived here?" I ask as my earlier suspicion grows. "In the house?"

"Yes," she says, cocking a shoulder.

The pieces click together. If she lived here, she must be a part of my husband's family on his mother's side.

"You shouldn't climb through the window," I chide gently. "You can make popcorn and watch television any time you like as long as you use the door."

"The door was locked," she exclaims.

"Then you should've waited for me. The same goes for taking things from the cupboard. Or the windowsill. You shouldn't simply help yourself. You should ask. It's not right to take something that doesn't belong to you. People may get angry."

"I'm sorry I took the cereal." She pouts. "And the cake. I was hungry."

I squeeze her hand. "I know, sweetheart. Next time, please ask. I'm not trying to be mean. I just want to make sure you don't pick up habits that can get you into trouble."

"Are you going to take me back to the camp because I took your cereal?" she asks in a small voice.

"Oh, Sophie." I hug her to me. "Right now, we're just going to wash up and have a slice of cake. Don't worry. We'll sort it out. Just promise me you won't climb through anyone's window again."

She pulls away. "If I promise, can I have two pieces of cake?"

"I already told you that you may have cake." I smile. "We'll see about the two slices."

"Okay," she agrees meekly.

I bring her to the kitchen and make her sit in a chair by the sink. I still have some of the products the pharmacist gave me left. After fetching the oil and shampoo from the bathroom, I give Sophie a bowl with soapy water in which she washes Beatrice's hair while I comb the oil through her short hair before washing and rinsing it with her head tilted back in the sink. Once her hair is clean, I trim it as best as I can with the kitchen scissors.

"Do you cut your own hair?" I ask as I dry it with the hairdryer by the kitchen table.

"My brothers do. Beatrice won't let them cut her hair." She looks up at me, swinging her legs. "Can I let mine grow long like yours?"

"Sure, but you have to wash it often so that it's pretty and shiny." I give her a dry washcloth to serve as a towel for the doll. "Shall we go find Beatrice something to wear?"

She follows me upstairs obediently. When I suggest a shower, her fear of water and submersing her head in it becomes apparent again. With a little coaxing, I manage to scrub her clean in a few centimeters of water in the bath before giving her one of my T-shirts, a pair of shorts, and socks to wear. We dress Beatrice in a red silk scarf, which Sophie says the doll loves.

While we make the frosting in the kitchen, I contemplate how to bring up the matter that's on my mind without scaring her away. It's not until Sophie is seated at the table with a big slice of cake in front of her and a small slice served on a saucer for Beatrice that I say, "Why don't you stay here for a while, Sophie? Beatrice must be cold down there by the river."

Sophie shrugs and shoves a spoon full of cake into her mouth. "It's warm in the cave when we make a fire."

"Will your brothers worry if you don't go back?"

"They don't really miss me." She adds with an air of pride, "I sometimes stay away for a few days. I know how to take care of myself."

Smoothing a hand over her head, I ask, "How old are you?"

She shrugs again. "I don't know."

The tightness in my chest increases. I can't let her return to that cave, but I don't want Angelo to drag her back to her grandfather either. Will he let her stay at his house? Will he let Heidi take care of her?

When both plates are empty, Sophie helps me to tidy the kitchen, seeming to enjoy the task. I lured her inside with the cake, but she needs a healthier dinner than the sugar I just fed her. After fixing her an egg-mayo sandwich that she devours with a glass of milk as if she hasn't eaten in years, I heat up a carton of soup.

"Are you still hungry? I'm going to have soup. Will Beatrice like a bowl?"

"With bread." She adds quickly, "And butter," before climbing on a chair by the table.

After serving three bowls of soup, I sit down opposite her.

She spreads a thick layer of butter on a slice of bread and dunks it in her soup.

I cup my bowl and draw it closer, considering my next words carefully. "I don't want you to go back to the camp if that's not what you want, but I can't let you roam around alone and live in the cave. It's not safe."

She stops eating and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "My brothers take care of me. They bring food."

"Which they find where?" I ask gently.

"They slip into people's houses or take vegetables from their gardens."

My God. Those poor children. "If they're stealing, they'll get into trouble. It's not right." Reaching over the table, I cup her hand. "You do understand that, don't you? It's not your job to take care of yourself. It's the job of the adults who are responsible for you."

She pulls away. "I'm not going back to Grandpa."

"Sweetheart, I'm only saying we have to speak to Mr. Russo and make an arrangement."

"No," she says, clenching her small hands on the table. "Beatrice doesn't like that man."

"I won't let anything happen to you or Beatrice. But you can't carry on living alone."

Her voice climbs in volume. "I'm not alone. I have Beatrice. I have my brothers."

Getting up, I come around the table and brush a hand over her stubbly hair in a soothing gesture. "Why is Beatrice so afraid of the men?" I continue in a soft tone. "Did something happen to her?" My chest constricts as I ask the question on the forefront of my mind. "Did they hurt her?"

"No." She scowls. "She just doesn't like them."

I heave a sigh. "It's getting dark now, but can you take me to your brothers tomorrow? I'd like to meet them too."

"They're not always at the cave. Sometimes, they leave food and come back after a few days."

"Can you show me the cave then?"

She purses her lips.

"Sophie?"

"Beatrice is full. She doesn't want to eat anymore. Can I brush her hair?"

"How about you?" I ask, trying hard not to show my worry. "Have you eaten enough?"

She bobs her head.

I smile. "Shall we braid Beatrice's hair? Maybe we can find her pajamas to wear. What do you think?"

"Okay," she says, hopping off the chair.

A car pulls up outside. It's not Heidi's car. I learned to distinguish between the sounds of the engines.

Sophie stills. Her eyes widen. She looks like a frightened rabbit as she grabs Beatrice to her chest. She glances at the backdoor. Even before she presses up on her toes like a sprinter about to take off for a race, I know she's going to flee.

"No, wait." I raise my hands and put myself in her path, cutting off her escape route. "It's all right. It's only my husband. He won't hurt you."

Angelo is many things, but he won't lay his hands on a child. I know it with a deep-seated certainty. He tried to give the children a home. It's the only reason this house exists. That says a lot about his intentions where the kids are concerned.

Before Sophie can act, the front door opens with a squeak and closes with a click. I turn toward the doorway, bracing myself to face my husband while Sophie all but blends into my shadow.

Steps fall on the floor, advancing to the kitchen. My husband comes into view, filling the doorframe with his tall, broad body. His dark hair falls messily around his face, making him look way too hot. For a change, he's wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a rollneck sweater. The ensemble is casual, yet on him, it looks fancy. Expensive. The clothes mold to his strong frame. Or rather, he fills them out well. He wears them with the ease of a man who's certain of himself and his destiny.

He pauses on the threshold, watching me with an intense but unreadable expression before entering the room.

Sophie clutches my T-shirt and peeks out from behind my back. My husband cuts his gaze in the direction of the movement, and then he freezes. His black eyes flare. His lips part, but no sound escapes. No one speaks as he stares at the child who fists her tiny hands so tightly in my T-shirt that she's stretching it over my stomach. Beatrice's stick arms press into my hip. It takes a long moment before Angelo finally tears his gaze away from the small person hiding behind me and lifts his eyes to mine.

His voice is gruff. "What is the kid doing here?"

Sophie wrings my T-shirt to the point of tearing it.

"She has a name," I chastise. "It's Sophie." I reach behind me to hug her waist.

"Sophie," he parrots, a frown pleating his brow.

Searching his eyes, I ask an unspoken question. "Your niece."

"Yes." He glances at her again. "How did she end up here?"

Rubbing a hand over Sophie's back, I say, "We need to talk."

His eyes tighten before the creases in the corners even out with understanding. Nodding toward the lounge, he says, "In here."

"Upstairs."

The line of his jaw hardens at my blunt contradiction of his order.

Ignoring him, I turn to Sophie and go down on my haunches. "Mr. Russo and I have to discuss something upstairs."

"Why?" she croaks.

"Sometimes, adults need to talk in privacy. You and Beatrice can wait in the lounge. Did you finish the movie yesterday?"

She shakes her head.

"Why don't you show Beatrice the end of Toy Story?"

She sticks her head around me, scrutinizing Angelo before averting her eyes. "Is he going to stay like the other man?"

Something like a growl rumbles in Angelo's chest.

"Fabien?" I say. "He only stayed for a short while."

"Beatrice doesn't like Mr. Russo. Is he staying for a short while too?"

I steal a look over my shoulder at my husband who stands with clenched fists near the door, for the first time since I've met him appearing out of his depth.

"We'll see," I say, turning back to Sophie with a smile. "This is Mr. Russo's house, so he may decide to stay. Or he may not if he's busy."

Behind me, Angelo utters a cuss word under his breath.

I shoot him a frown.

"Can we have popcorn?" Sophie asks.

"Sure." I straighten. "Make yourself and Beatrice comfortable on the sofa under the blanket, and I'll make the popcorn."

Sophie sticks her finger in her mouth and keeps her head low as she skitters around Angelo and darts to the lounge.

Crossing his arms, he widens his stance and studies me while I put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. I feel his gaze burning on my back as I set the timer and push the start button.

"The popcorn and the movie," he says. "It was her."

I take a bowl from the cupboard. "Yes."

"She was here."

"Yes," I say again, keeping my voice down.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks in a strained voice.

I give him a hard look. "I would've if you'd given me the chance."

He props his hands on his hips. The action pushes the ends of his jacket open, revealing the hardness of his stomach his sweater doesn't hide and lean hips hugged by his jeans. "You could've tried harder."

"Really? When?" I drop my voice to a whisper. "When you left me half-naked here in the kitchen?"

The muscles in his jaw bunch. "When did this happen? How?"

"Upstairs," I say again, taking the popcorn from the microwave.

Angelo steps up and stops so close behind me the heat of his skin sears me through my clothes.

Reaching around me, he takes the box. "Careful. It's hot."

I scoff. "I know how to make popcorn."

He pulls the edges of the box apart, letting out a billow of steam. I watch, curious about what he's going to do, as he empties the box in the bowl. He picks up the bowl and takes a bottle of water from the fridge before making his way to the door.

"What?" he says when I don't follow. "Aren't we going upstairs?"

Ignoring the jibe, I walk ahead of him, wanting to make sure he doesn't frighten Sophie. I know he won't harm her, but he can be brusque. As charming as he can be, he sometimes has the finesse of an ogre.

Sophie sits on the sofa with Beatrice clutched on her lap, staring at Mr. Potato Head who lifts his eyes from his face to scout through the window. Her small feet clad in my too-big socks are turned inward, her tiny body drowning in my clothes. A rush of tenderness overwhelms me. I can't even begin to think about the hardships she's been through, that she's still going through.

Angelo crouches down in front of her, blocking her view of the television. She leans to the side, trying to see around him. At least she's not acting afraid of him.

"Sophie," he says with such unexpected gentleness that my heart misses a beat. I've never heard that tone from him before.

She glances at him.

"Here's your popcorn."

She grabs the bowl.

Angelo holds on to it. "What do we say?"

"Thanks," she says absent-mindedly, her attention focused on the movie again.

When he lets the bowl go, she pulls it onto her lap and stuffs a handful of popcorn in her mouth. "Shh, Beatrice. I can't hear what they're saying."

He leaves the water on the side table and glances at me as he straightens. Worry is etched on his features.

"We'll be back in a short while," I tell Sophie, but she's not paying attention.

Angelo goes ahead of me. In front of the bedroom, he stands aside for me to enter before following and closing the door.

"What's with this Beatrice business?" he asks.

"It's her doll. I think it's a coping mechanism. By projecting her fears on the doll, she doesn't have to deal with them."

"Fuck." He scrubs a hand over his face. "When did she show up here?"

"The first time was little over a week ago."

"A week?" he exclaims.

"Shh. Keep your voice down. I heard something in the house in the night, and I saw her sneaking out with a box of cereal and a carton of milk."

"That's why you wanted keys." He spears his hands through his hair. "Jesus."

"Then a cake I baked disappeared from the windowsill. I think she climbed through a window to watch television while I was out for a walk. Fabien must've scared her away when he arrived."

He stares at me with an incredulous expression. "How did you finally catch her?"

"I baked another cake and sat outside, waiting. At first, I thought she was a boy. Until she spoke. I managed to rid her hair of the lice and to scrub her in the bath."

"Why the hell didn't you say something before?"

"I didn't know who she was until today. I saw a handprint on the window and a dent in a garden cushion from time to time, but I didn't want you to chase the child away. It was obvious that she was hungry. I went looking for her last night after you left, but I couldn't find her."

His eyes tighten. "You did what?"

"I had to try. I couldn't just leave her out there in the cold night. She told me she lives with her brothers in a cave somewhere by the river."

"Christ." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Don't ever do that again. The area is dangerous, especially if you don't know where you're going. There are gorges and rivers, not to mention venomous spiders and scorpions. If you ever walk around alone in the dark again, I swear I'll lock you up at night."

"Aren't you forgetting the issue at hand?"

"I'm not," he says, getting into my space. "You are my priority. Always." He cups my jaw, his grip a little too hard. "Do you understand, Sabella?"

"Yes." I pull away. "What about Sophie and her brothers? She said their grandfather went back to the camp. A friend apparently drove him while the kids stayed behind."

"Fuck." He turns in a circle, his head tilted toward the ceiling. "That old bastard."

"If she's your niece, that makes him her great-grandfather. Where is her grandmother?"

"We didn't keep contact with that side of the family, but from what I learned, the old man had two daughters—my mother and Francesca. Francesca, my aunt, died in childbirth. The baby, Maria, was raised by the old man and his wife. My grandmother died not long after. Sophie is Maria's daughter. Maria and her husband and their four kids lived with the old man."

"Why didn't you stay in touch?"

His manner is curt. "That's just the way it is."

"They're stealing food to stay alive. We have to do something."

"Do you think I don't know that?" he asks, facing me.

"I can't even begin to imagine their suffering."

"Believe me, those kids are tough. They're scoundrels, but they're survivors."

"They're children."

"I know what they are." His eyebrows snap together. "I'm not going to leave them to their own devices."

"Why didn't they stay in the house?" The question puzzled me since Sophie told me they moved to the cave. "At least here they had comforts like water and electricity."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "You saw the state of the place when I first brought you here. It must give you an idea of the kind of people they are. They don't care about luxuries. They don't appreciate kindness or charity. All they know is destruction and vandalism. They're savages, Sabella." The light in his eyes turn hard. "That's who they are, who we are."

No matter what's passed between us, the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide doesn't leave me unaffected. I can't help the compassion that sparks in my chest.

Laying a hand on his arm, I say, "That's not who you are."

He may be cruel when he hates someone as much as he loathes me, but he won't destroy a beautiful house just for fun. Yes, deep down, he is a savage. His actions are as brutal as his personality. On the surface, however, he's perfectly civilized, a man who behaves as society dictates if only for the sake of pretending to fit in.

His chuckle is dry. "Then you don't know me very well, wife."

He shakes me off and walks to the window, staring out at the night. I take in his broad back as I contemplate the statement. I know him better than he thinks. I know what motivates him. I know his family meant everything to him and that his hatred will drive him until his dying day. I know that I'll be the bane who satisfies his quest for vengeance. I know that he's my enemy, a man I despise as much as I once liked him.

The awful truth is that I crave his touch. The horrible reality is that I don't think about what he did as much as I used to. Maybe it's because I'm blocking the memory of the night he killed my dad from my mind. Maybe it's because I'm trying not to think about it. The undeniable fact is that my body is still drawn to his. When he wraps his arms around me, it's as if I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. It feels like home. That's my worst punishment, my insufferable torture, because the safety I feel when he holds me is false.

"What a fucking mess," he says, turning around. His voice hardens with resolve. "I'll deal with it."

"How?"

"There's no need to worry yourself about the logistics. It's not your problem."

I go closer. "Sophie doesn't want to go back to her great-grandfather. I don't know him, but from what I've heard and seen, he's incapable of taking care of them."

"You're right." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "All he cares about are his fucking chickens and his goats."

"What about their parents? Sophie only told me they're gone."

Concern simmers in his eyes. "I tried to locate them, but I came up empty-handed. They've never been around much from what I understood, but shortly before I moved the old man and the kids here, they simply vanished. I have no idea if they just decided to pack up and leave or if they're dead. I contacted every hospital and morgue in the country. I've got private investigators on the case. There's no sign of them."

"Where does that leave the kids?"

"With me," he says, his smile flat.

"What do you mean?"

"They'll have to move into the old house where I can keep an eye on them."

My stomach clenches with worry. "How's that going to work? Aren't you always busy and often traveling?"

He utters a laugh. "I'll have to hire a ton of tutors, not to mention guards to keep them in line."

"You heard what Sophie said. You scared her. I'm not sure she'll want to go with you. She thought you were angry with them."

Impatience enters his tone. "Well, she doesn't have a choice, does she?"

"Please don't be hard on her. You'll only push her away."

"Are you telling me how to manage my own family?"

"I'm only trying to help."

"Don't."

I blow out a sigh. "What about the legal red tape?"

"In the absence of the parents, the old man has guardianship." He sneers. "If I pay him enough, he'll sign it over to me."

"When are you going to tell her?"

"Now," he says, walking to the door.

"Hold on." I wrap my fingers around his forearm. "Why don't you let her stay with me? You saw for yourself. She's at ease here."

He works his jaw. "I already told you, it's not your problem." Taking my hand, he removes it from his arm before marching to the door.

"Think about it," I say, going after him. "Don't make this worse. She's frightened enough as it is."

He walks down the stairs with determined steps and stops in front of the sofa. Taking the remote, he switches off the television.

Sophie stills. Her small body goes rigid as she looks up at him.

"Sophie," he says in a gentle voice. "It's dangerous out there for a small girl alone. You're coming back with me to live in my house."

Her brown eyes grow round.

"It's a big house with a garden and a swimming pool," he continues. "There's even a beach."

She jumps to her feet, knocking the bowl with the popcorn to the floor. Clutching the doll in her hands, she looks ready to bolt.

"Sophie," I say in a soothing tone. "Mr. Russo won't hurt you. He has a very kind housekeeper who cooks delicious food."

She sprints to me and jumps behind my back, locking her arms around my legs. "I'm not going. I don't want to."

Angelo says in a stern voice, "You can't stay in a cave. That's not an option."

"I want to stay here." Her voice quivers with tears. "With Sabella."

"Jesus," Angelo says under his breath, clenching his hands into balls.

"She can stay," I say, beseeching him with a look. "I don't mind. In fact, I think it will be the best plan given the circumstances."

He opens his mouth and shuts it again. Holding out a hand, he says, "Come on, Sophie. Don't you want to see my house?"

"No." She hurls the words at him. "Beatrice doesn't like you. She doesn't want to live in your house. She wants to stay with Sabella."

"For God's sake," he mutters, dropping his arm at his side.

"It's all right, sweetheart." I turn and crouch down to hug her. "Everyone wants what's best for you and Beatrice." I glance at my husband. "Isn't that true?"

"Fine," he grunts, wiping a hand over his brow. "Let her stay here while I work out a solution."

I don't ask what kind of solution. I don't want to spook Sophie more. At least she's staying. For now. Whatever Angelo comes up with, we'll handle it when the time comes.

"On one condition," he says.

I make big eyes at him. He shouldn't blackmail the poor child. He just gave her his word. If he changes his decision, she'll never trust him.

He advances to us. His expression is soft when he addresses Sophie again. "I want you to show me where your brothers are staying."

"Why?" she asks, sounding scared.

He glances at me with an uncertain expression. He opens his mouth, but before he can utter a word, I say, "Because I'm going to cook a big, delicious meal, and I'd like to invite them."

"With chicken?" she asks. "Like the ones that turns around and around in the machine outside the supermarket?"

"Yes." I brush a hand over her hair. "With grilled chicken and chocolate cake for dessert."

She lifts the doll to her ear. A moment passes as she pretends to listen, and then she says, "Beatrice says you'll need three chickens and two cakes."

I raise an eyebrow. "Beatrice is a little gourmand, isn't she?"

Sophie scrunches up her face. "A what?"

"Someone who likes to eat a little too much."

"Oh, no." Sophie shakes her head. "I have three brothers, and they eat a lot."

"Ah." I catch Angelo's gaze. "Three chickens can be organized, can't it? I'll take care of the cake."

"Of course," he replies, staring at me with a strange light in his dark eyes. His voice scrapes in his throat as he clears it. "I'll let you settle Sophie in then."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it.

He nods, hesitates, and finally walks to the door and pulls it open. Pausing on the threshold, he says, "Goodnight, Sophie."

The smile he directs at me before he leaves is different. It's not a cruel smile given in a moment of extracting vengeance. It's not a cold smile to emphasize his hatred. It's not an arrogant smile that expresses his indifference. It's a warm smile, soft and gentle, and it dislodges something in my chest. The gesture is so foreign for him that it takes me a moment to place it.

Gratitude.

It touches me a million times more profoundly than when he lays his hands on me.