God had cut me off long ago, but at that moment, I needed Him.
I cut off a piece of food and brought it to my lips, closing my eyes to savor it. Not believing what was happening, I took another bite. Then another. Tears clouded my vision and I put down my fork, pressing my palms against my eyes.
Like the pathetic man I was, I broke down, sobbing, the pain and love coming back to me in waves. I didn't know how it was possible or where she had found the recipe, but Daisy recreated my favorite dish. The recipe my mother had made for me countless times as a child:Golabki.
No.
She recreated the flavors exactly, and if I hadn't known she made the dinner herself, I would have said it was the work of my Mamusia'sghost.
It was exactly the same, and my sobs increased with that realization. My Mamusia had always been territorial and never wrote down the exact recipes. The odds of Daisy getting those flavors right were one in a million, but she did it.
I continued to eat through tears and sobs, this time because I felt lost. I had begged for a sign, and my Mamusia had sent it straight to my heart, but I received it too late.
I didn't know how to fix what I had just done, nor did I know if I deserved to feel what Daisy Parker awakened in my chest.
My parents died because of me, because I once chose to love the wrong woman. My brother and my cousin were in jail, deprived of their lives. What right did I have to feel anything?
Worse.
I abandoned Daisy in that damn room. Broken to pieces.
I had no idea how to repair the damage I caused, because, it turned out, all I was good at was destroying. And that never hurt me so much until that moment.
Chapter 42
Daisy Peonia Mary Parker
August, 2025
Castello dell’Fiero, Calabria, Italy
The second week of August was coming to an end.
Taking a deep breath, I hugged the rough bark of the lemon tree, closing my eyes as the sun began to warm my skin. Recent times had not been easy, but my love for Calabria grew day by day. Seeing the sun every morning, among the fragrant tangerine, lemon, and orange trees, and laurel trees that whispered in the slightest breeze, was priceless. The way the sun climbed the hill and filtered through the vineyards, the sparrows chirping in flocks...
There was something very magical about that place.
I opened my eyes and moved away from the tree. It was going to be a scorching day. It was just past seven in the morning and the sun was already burning my skin. As usual, I thought aboutmy Papa and made a mental note to ask Aunt Lizzie if he had ever been to Italy. After all, he had traveled all over the world and my second name, the name he gave me, Peonia, came from the Italian.
I hoped so. That place was too beautiful to go unseen.
It had been a month since my arrival in Italy. From my situation to what had happened with my soon-to-be murderer, aka kidnapper, aka Mr. Mafioso, everything felt too confusing, and maybe that was why I was increasingly drawn to the natural beauty of the place. Otherwise, my mind would return to the same dark place it had been twelve years ago.
Camillo didn’t avoid me. After doing everything he wanted to my body and leaving me alone, making me feel filthy, he didn't withdraw as he did when he kissed me for the first time. He became distant, cold. Like a neighbor you say good morning to just to be polite. The only elaborate conversation we'd had was about the recipe I found for cabbage rolls. He wanted to know where I'd found it, and I explained that I took it from under the skirting board in the kitchen, and the conversation died there.
The first few days were painful. Part of me wanted to touch him and be touched, the other part wanted to hide in a deep hole. When I tried to get his attention, approaching Fabiano one afternoon as he was talking to Luca in front of the villa, I received only a brief glance, followed by utter contempt.
What had I expected? That after a few weeks he would fall madly in love with me? No. Camillo Vicari would certainly not have peach orchards uprooted for me.
I was just the pathetic American woman in his life. A servant. His prisoner. Sooner or later, Camillo was going to kill me. It was with that promise that I went to Italy. But what had I done? I let his good looks and charm cloud my judgment, and my foolish heart rise up on fantasies.
Camillo Vicari wasn't Lester. He would never be, and I never wanted him to be. But for a brief period of time, I allowed myself to believe in a beautiful chapter where love would reemerge as the main character.
But mobsters don't love anyone. They use and discard. Just as he had done.
He used me and left me feeling dirty, curled up in a fetal position under the spray of the shower while trying to erase the memory of what happened. Feeling pathetic, stupid.
That's exactly what I was. An idiot.
