"It's nothing. Just adjusting."
The lie pisses me off, but I swallow the irritation down. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. But I can't protect you from what I don't know."
Her eyes flicker away. "We're safe here. That's all that matters."
Fucking hell. If push too hard, she'll retreat further. But my patience is wearing thin.
"I want to believe you," I say quietly.
Her fingers tighten around mine. "Then believe me."
She won’t look at me, a sure sign of deception.Patience, I remind myself. Four years on the run makes people skittish. I need to get Alessandro off her back so she can relax and see that she’s safe here. That she can trust me.
"I've got a surprise.” I change the topic.
"What kind of surprise?"
"The kind where you put on a black dress and we take Mirabella out for the night."
“I doubt Alessandro will allow me?—”
“Fuck that, Eva. Do you want to go out or not?” I snap.
She flinches, and I hate that I’ve startled her.
I take a breath. “Alessandro doesn’t control everything. Come on. We’ll go out as a family. What do you say?”
“I say that would be lovely.”
An hour later, Eva emerges in a sleek, elegant dress that hugs her curves without being overtly sexual. She's pinned her hair up,exposing the delicate line of her neck, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. She’s so fucking beautiful.
Mirabella bounces beside her in a midnight-blue dress with silver stars, looking like she might burst from excitement. "Daddy! Look at my sparkles!"
"The most beautiful girls in New York," I tell them both, meaning every word.
I drive us into Manhattan for dinner. The maître d' escorts us to a private corner table with views of the entire restaurant. It’s a long-formed habit. I need to see every entrance, every potential threat. The place is nice, but not so nice that it doesn’t have spaghetti for Mirabella.
“I’ve got us tickets to seeSleeping Beauty,” I say as we wait for our meals to arrive.
“The movie?” Eva asks.
“The ballet.” I look at Mirabella. "It has fairies."
Her squeal of delight draws looks from nearby tables. I couldn't care less.
After dinner, we head to the theater and take our seats in a private box. I’ve experienced many great thrills in my life, but nothing compares to watching my daughter's face as the curtain rises and dancers fill the stage.
"Daddy," she says in awe. "The fairies are real."
"Yes, they are.”
Mirabella is transfixed, for the first part, but then she climbs into my lap, and not long after, she’s sleeping.
When the show ends, I carry her in one arm, my other hand holding Eva’s as we move through the lobby toward the exit.
"The blue fairy was the prettiest," Mirabella mumbles, half-asleep. "Can I be a fairy?"
"You already are," I tell her. "The most magical one."
