4. Gabriel

4

GAbrIEL

E ven after I leave Masseo’s home, it’s difficult for me to get Bella out of my thoughts. Something about her tugged at my heart in a way that nothing has in a long time. I’ve never been the kind of man who thinks of myself as a white knight, a savior for damsels in distress, who enjoys the idea of playing a hero. But I can’t recall ever seeing anyone as distraught as she was. The sound of that hiccuping sob she made when she was still leaning against me, before she jumped away like I’d hurt her, has stuck with me since I heard it.

Pity . That’s the emotion I zero in on, and the one that I tell myself I’m feeling. I feel badly for her, because, as far as I’m concerned, the old way of arranging marriages is outdated. In my opinion, Masseo should just leave her be until she wants to get married—if she ever wants to at all.

In the high-ranking families, the dons and underbosses, it’s more reasonable, even if it’s still, in my opinion, an archaic practice. Those families need to make alliances with others for power, leveraging daughters for agreements to have each others’ backs and share in business profits. They need heirs to ensure that these empires carry on after those dons and underbosses and consiglieres are dead and buried.

But Masseo and his family aren’t anywhere near that. He has the D’Amelio name, but he’s a distant cousin of the don, not someone who needs to preserve his future by marrying off his daughter to whoever has the highest bid. The idea of it is repulsive. And it’s clear that his interest is financial—he changed his tune quickly enough about allowing her to come work for me when I made it clear that there was money on the table.

His greed has made him someone willing to take risks in business, and someone who ensures his assets are well-protected. He’s been a good business associate. But after today, I find him utterly distasteful on a personal level. I hope, for Bella’s sake, that she accepts my offer tomorrow night.

It will either give her some time to come to terms with her father’s demands—or she’ll like the job so much that she’ll want to stay on permanently. In that case, we’ll figure out what that means when the time comes, but I can’t help hoping that will be what she ends up wanting to do. It would be good for my children. Good for the family.

And after the last four years, we need something good in our lives.

I turn onto the long, gravel driveway that leads up to my house, set back from the road by a good bit and fringed with a stand of tall trees. It’s a stately three-story brick Georgian—not a mansion, but beautiful, with a bit of history and comfortable enough to raise a family in. My wife fell in love with it shortly after we were married, and I was happy to buy a home that wasn’t ostentatious. I like luxury cars, and I appreciate a well-fitted suit and a gourmet meal, but I don’t like to show off my wealth in the way that others do.

Parking the car, I toss the keys onto the dash, knowing Aldo will come around eventually and park it. Aldo runs the grounds, managing the gardening and maintenance staff that come and go, and his wife, Agnes, manages the house for me. She and Aldo have been living in a cottage on the grounds for as long as I’ve lived here, a small two-bedroom home that’s set back a good distance from the main house. Over the past four years, she’s stood in for the children’s mother as much as she can, helping me with everything under the sun when I’m not home. But she’s getting older, and I know help would be appreciated. There are two other housekeeping staff who come by every week, but Agnes is territorial over the house, and prefers to do things herself as much as possible.

The moment I walk inside and shut the door, I hear the sound of two pairs of small feet running headlong towards me. There’s the shriek of “Daddy! Daddy, you’re home!” and then a small nine-year-old boy is flinging himself headlong into me, his eleven-year-old sister close behind.

“Hey there, Danny.” I squeeze him tight, briefly picking him up off the floor before releasing my son and leaning down to give my daughter a hug. Cecelia is quieter than her brother, more reserved in every aspect, including affection. She’s been that way since her mother passed, and I find myself thinking of Bella, hoping once again that she’ll accept my offer. Someone else around the house, someone besides Agnes who spends time with her day in and day out, would be good for Cecelia, I think. It might help bring her out of her shell.

“Agnes is in the kitchen,” Cecelia informs me gravely as I unbutton my cuffs and roll my sleeves up, following her and Danny as she leads us in that direction. “She’s making pot roast for dinner.”

“Is that so? I hope you’ve been helping her.”

Cecelia nods. “She let me chop the carrots and the onions. And she let Danny season the meat.” She wrinkles her nose. “I hope he did a good job.”

“I bet he did. Besides, I’m sure Agnes was keeping an eye on you both the whole time. She would have helped if you needed it.”

I can smell the cooking dinner before we even reach the kitchen. Danny hops up onto one of the kitchen table chairs as soon as we walk in, but Cecelia heads towards where Agnes is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She glances up as we walk in, a smile wreathing her weathered face as she sees us. “Gabriel. Il mio regazzo. How was your day?”

“It was fine. How was all of yours? I hear you’ve been teaching them to cook.”

Agnes snorts, swirling the gravy in the pot with the wooden spoon she’s holding. “The basics. A little chopping, a little seasoning. Nothing too intense. But Cecelia likes being in the kitchen.” She sets the spoon down on the flowered ceramic rest between the stove burners, and walks to the refrigerator. I can see that she’s starting to get a little slower, the signs of age showing, and it makes my chest ache a little to see it. I’ve known Agnes since I was a child. She worked for my parents, before she came to run my household after I married. She and Aldo are far more than just staff to me. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said to Masseo earlier today that Agnes is like family to me.

I walk to the wine rack on the far end of the counter as Agnes takes a large wooden bowl out of the refrigerator, covered in a linen cloth. She sets it down on the counter and pulls out a stepstool for Cecelia, who steps up onto it as Agnes uncovers the bowl.

“I know how much you like punching down the dough,” Agnes says with a smile. “So go ahead and do that, and then we’ll get it into the oven. Danny, do you want to oil the loaf pan?”

Danny nods eagerly, and Agnes brings him the ceramic loaf pan, along with a bottle of good olive oil and a napkin to coat the inside of it. I feel something tug in my chest at the sight of the dish—that pan, made out of fired ceramic and hand-painted with small flowers in red and blue, was a part of the dishes that were given to my wife by my family, before our wedding. A gift from our old-world family, back in Sicily, where the dishes were made.

There’s an entire set of dishes that match in the cupboards, where they sit and never get used. I don’t like seeing them on the table. But Agnes uses the more “useful” ones, things like the loaf pan and casserole dish, and I don’t mind, especially since the children help her in the kitchen so often, and I rarely have anything to do with the cooking. They should get to enjoy the things that their mother loved.

Danny is happily pouring olive oil into the pan, his hands greasy with it, and I glance over from uncorking a bottle to see that some is already in his hair. I set the wine bottle down, crossing the room to go and rescue the pan.

“You have to use a smaller amount,” I tell him, folding the paper napkin and pouring out a bit of the oil onto it. “Here.” I tilt the pan, showing him how to spread it evenly all around the surface, and then mop up the excess. “Now the bread dough won’t stick.”

I hand him the napkin, letting him sweep it once more around the interior of the pan, before taking the oil-soaked napkins and throwing them away. Cecelia is happily helping Agnes flour the dough, and for a moment, I just stand there, taking in the sight in front of me. It’s a happy, homey one—my two children and a woman who could easily be their grandmother fixing a hearty dinner for us, laughing as the last rays of the sun stream through the wide, valance-topped window above the sink and over the old woman and little girl kneading bread dough.

As always, when I watch a moment like this, my chest feels hollow. Because Delilah should still be here, her ink-black hair thrown up in a messy bun atop her head, her rings sitting in a dish on the windowsill while she helps Cecelia with the bread dough, flour all over them both. She liked to hum while she cooked, and the sound of it is noticeably absent from the kitchen, as happy as this scene is.

I swallow hard, pushing away the image. It’s harder for me to imagine Bella here, but maybe that’s a good thing. She’s meant to be a new employee, and it’ll be up to her to fit into our lives, or not. If I could imagine her here so easily, that might mean I’m thinking of her in ways that I shouldn’t.

“Come on, Danny,” I tell my son, doing my best to banish thoughts both of my wife and of the woman I’m hoping to hire to care for our children. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Can’t sit at the dinner table with olive oil in your hair.”

Danny lets out a sound of protest, but he gets up anyway. “I’ll be back down with him in just a bit,” I tell Agnes, who nods and collects the pan for the bread dough.

A half-hour later, we’re all back downstairs and around the table in the dining room. Agnes and Aldo often eat with us, at least a few times a week, and tonight is one of those. I bring in the Dutch oven with the pot roast, and Agnes carries in the bread and a dish of herbed olive oil and butter, as well as a boat of gravy. Danny and Cecilia sit on one side of the table, Agnes and Aldo at the other, with me at the head. I feel a small pang every time I see Cecelia sit down in the chair her mother used to occupy, knowing I’ll never see Delilah there again.

At the same time, I’m grateful for the family that I do still have, and the closeness we share.

My decision to bring Bella into this wavers, just for a moment. What if it upsets the balance that we have now? I can see a potential for this to go wrong, as well as right.

“I’m thinking of hiring someone new,” I say slowly, glancing up at Agnes as I slice into the pot roast. “A nanny.”

Agnes raises an eyebrow, passing the butter dish to Cecelia. “Oh? Is that so, Gabriel?”

There’s a hint of caution in her voice. I imagine that it likely has to do with some of the same reservations I’ve had.

“I thought it might be good for us.” I glance over at Danny and Cecelia. “Would you like that? A new friend to help Agnes during the day, while I’m not at home?”

Cecelia frowns, glancing at Agnes and back at me. “Maybe,” she ventures. “Depending on what she’s like.”

Danny just shrugs, smearing butter over a piece of bread. “That’s fine,” he says, kicking his feet back and forth against his chair.

“Agnes?” I glance back at her. “What do you think?”

She flattens her mouth, but nods slowly. “The help might be good,” she says, and it’s at that moment that I feel sure my decision to bring someone on, whether it’s Bella or someone else, is the right one. I’ve never known Agnes to be someone who readily admits when she needs help, so for her to say that means that it’s time. I watch her for a moment as she puts a second helping on Aldo’s plate, looking for signs that something more is wrong than she’s letting on. But she just looks a bit tired. She’s aging, after all, as much as I don’t want to admit it. I remember when she was still a younger woman, managing the house for my parents.

I drop the topic for now, wanting to wait until after the children are in bed to discuss it further. We finish the meal with lighter conversations, talking to Cecelia and Danny about school, and how excited they are for summer break, which starts next week. Another reason to bring on extra help. Bella, if she agrees, can take some of the load off of Agnes while the children are here all day, rather than being in school for part of it.

When dinner is finished, Cecelia and Danny help Agnes clear the table. Wanting them to learn to help take care of themselves is one of the many reasons why Delilah never employed more staff, and why I’ve continued not to do so. I don’t want them to grow up never having washed a dish or cleaned their own rooms.

The nighttime routine is always the same. I take them upstairs, tuck them in, and then head back down to pour myself an evening drink. Agnes is in the living room when I walk in with a glass of wine, cleaning up a little, and I shake my head.

“It’s after nine, Agnes. Leave whatever it is until tomorrow.”

“What, I can’t tidy up?” She shoots me a meaningful glare, and I sink down into my armchair, frowning at her.

“You can’t work all day. Go put your feet up. Read a book, or knit. Whatever your hobbies are these days.”

“My hobby is making sure you’re taken care of.” She gives me a fond, but faintly concerned look. “And I want to hear more about this possible nanny you’re hiring.”

“What do you want to know?” I prop one foot up on my knee, leaning back. “She’s Masseo D’Amelio’s daughter.”

“Pff.” She waves a hand. “That doesn’t mean anything to me. But if you’ve described her as a daughter, then she’s young, hm?”

I shift uncomfortably, wondering where this conversation is going, and think back to the collision with Bella in the hall. I don’t actually know how old she is. “In her early twenties, probably?” I guess.

“Mmhm.” Agnes snorts, flicking the duster in her hand over the mantle of the fireplace. “As I thought. And pretty, too?”

“I suppose.” I’ve tried not to think about just how pretty Bella D’Amelio is. It has no bearing on my interest in her. But pretty is too simple a word to describe how beautiful she was, even sobbing her eyes out. I can only imagine how she would look when she isn’t crying.

“So you’ve decided I need help, and you’re hiring a young, pretty daughter of some associate of yours to be that help?” Agnes turns to face me, a bemused look on her face as she puts her hands on her hips. “Am I getting that right?”

I narrow my eyes at her, taking another sip of my wine. “Don’t start, Agnes. It’s a job. Her father is trying to arrange a marriage for her, and she’s unhappy about it. So I’m offering her an alternative option.”

Agnes doesn’t look as if she’s entirely buying it.

“She needs an out. I need a nanny.” I blow out an exasperated breath. I often appreciate Agnes’ insight and wisdom, gained over the years, but tonight isn’t one of those nights. I know exactly what she’s thinking, and none of this has anything to do with a romantic interest in Bella D’Amelio.

I have no interest in a romantic relationship with anyone, ever again.

“Delilah took my heart with her, and you know that,” I tell Agnes quietly. The smirk drops from her mouth, as I knew it would when I brought up my late wife. A little bit of a cheap ploy, but she seemed to need reminding that in four years, I haven’t so much as gone on a real date with a woman. The occasional invite because I need someone on my arm to a business dinner or charity gala doesn’t count.

My business dinner with Bella tomorrow night will be the first dinner I’ve had alone with a woman in all that time.

“This helps both her and me,” I continue. “It solves a problem for both of us. That’s all.”

Agnes nods slowly. “And did she ask for help with this problem?”

I shake my head. “No. But I could tell she needed it.”

“Hmm.” Agnes sets the duster down, brushing her hands off on her pants. “When will you be deciding whether to hire her or not, then?”

“I’m supposed to meet with her tomorrow night. I’ll have a better idea of how she feels about it after that.”

Agnes gives me a long look, a hint of that amusement back in her eyes. “Well. I’m looking forward to hearing how that goes.” She glances up at the clock. “You’re right. It’s getting late, and Aldo is probably waiting up for me. See you tomorrow, Gabriel.”

“Good night.” I sit there, swirling the wine in my glass until she leaves, and then I let out a long sigh.

Bringing Bella here will mean changes. Good ones, I hope, but changes nonetheless. I feel that prick of anxiety again, the worry that I’m shaking things up in a household that otherwise runs smoothly. But I had a gut feeling, when she fled past me in that hallway, that this could be something good. And I’ve always done well, trusting my gut.

I finish the last of my wine, take the glass into the kitchen, and head upstairs to my bedroom. I moved out of the master suite four years ago, and into one of the other rooms on the upper floor. It’s another large bedroom with a balcony and a huge ensuite bathroom, so I’ve hardly noticed the difference. The most important part is that it’s not the room I shared with Delilah.

I didn’t want to buy a new house, afterward. We wanted the children to grow up here, to pass it on to them, and I didn’t want to undo that. But I also couldn’t even begin to heal, in any necessary way in order to continue being a good father, if I kept occupying the space that still reminded me of her in every aspect.

So I moved to a different room. The old one has been stripped and redone—it’s not as if I’ve kept it as a shrine to her or anything strange like that. It’s just an entirely different room now, and I’ve stayed in the one I chose. It’s felt better that way. Even after the redecoration, walking into that room felt like it brought back too many memories. And life is difficult enough now without making it harder on myself. I’m sure plenty of people would say that I should have forced myself past this already, but it’s impossible to force healing, in my opinion. And my life since then hasn’t afforded me a lot of opportunities to heal. If anything, I’ve lost more of myself and who I was even before Delilah since then.

I close the door behind me with a heavy sigh, feeling the tiredness from the day wash over me. I strip off my clothes and head to the shower, stepping under the multiple showerheads and feeling the hot spray pelt me from a variety of directions. I dip my head under the water, letting it wash over my scalp and ease my burgeoning headache.

For a brief moment, Bella slips back into my thoughts. It’s hard for her not to, considering how much of my day has been occupied by her, and considering that I’m going to meet her for dinner tomorrow. But for that brief moment, I think of how Agnes asked if she was pretty , and I remember her upturned face, those wide blue eyes staring up into mine.

Pretty doesn’t begin to cover it. Flawless skin, thick chestnut hair, that full mouth?—

My cock twitches when I think about her mouth, instantly rising, reminded of how long it’s been since I’ve felt lips wrapped around it. Since I’ve felt the heat of a soft, wet tongue, licking along my?—

I grit my teeth, instantly banishing the thought, ignoring my growing erection. Arousal isn’t a part of my life any longer, and it’s something I do my best to avoid. I can count the number of women I’ve slept with in the last four years on one hand, usually when the need for physical touch became so desperate that I started to wake in the night from wet dreams, aching for relief.

My cock throbs insistently, stiffening until the tip nearly brushes my navel. I’m aching for relief right now, but I push it down with the heel of my hand, urging it to soften. For one brief moment, I consider wrapping my hand around my length and easing the need myself, but I haven’t done that in a long time, either.

At least with someone else, I can try to lose myself in them, at least for a little while. It’s rare when I do, but the presence of another person keeps me from slipping into thoughts and memories that are more sad than arousing, leaving me feeling hollow and guilty after I come. That’s usually the result when I try to relieve it myself, and so I simply—don’t. The momentary pleasure and feeling of release aren’t enough to make up for the way I feel afterward, the memories and maudlin thoughts that usually come flooding in. My life is about managing my emotions these days, blocking off whatever gets in the way of what’s most important—providing for my family and ensuring that they don’t feel neglected. Letting myself wallow isn’t a part of that.

I take a deep breath, filling my hand with soap from the dispenser on the wall, and go about lathering up the rest of my body. I ignore my cock until the very end, and by then, it’s started to give up, softening as I will my arousal back into submission.

Sex is, and should be, the last thing on my mind right now. I purposefully redirect my thoughts away from Bella’s wide blue eyes and pretty mouth, and towards the reason for seeing her again, focusing on what I really need—hope. Hope that having her here can fill in a missing piece in my family, and give my children something that they very much need.

I often feel guilty for not wanting to marry again. I feel as if I’m cheating Danny and Cecelia out of growing up with a mother, as if my own selfishness in not wanting to be with another woman, even in an arrangement, is reflective of how good of a father I am.

Bella, if all goes well, can fill that role. She can give them what they need, without my having to compromise on the one thing I don’t want. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.

And tomorrow night, I’ll know if there’s a chance of that or not.