Page 11 of Banished and Pregnant by Her Sicilian Billionaire Husband

But Rica—my clever, contrary, wrong-way-round little girl—does not stay behind him.

She bolts.

She goes left. Straight out into the open lot, exactly where nobody should ever go, and the first man changes course after her.

And I see the whole rest of my life happen in the space between two of my own heartbeats.

That’s when I find out we’re not alone in this car park.

Two men I’ve never seen before come out from between the parked cars on my right, moving like they’ve been standing there all morning waiting for a reason.

One of them hits the runner at full speed and drives him into the ground so hard the sound of it goes off across the whole lot like a dropped plank. There’s a scream. A man’s scream, ragged and awful and not stopping, and something in his arm is bent the wrong way.

The other one reaches my daughter half a second before the second man does. He throws his back to the van, folds himself around her like a wall, then takes the whole weight of what comes next across his shoulders without making any sound at all.

Who are they? Whose are they? How long have they been standing in the car park where I bring my child?

The van doesn’t wait for its people. It slams into reverse and screams backwards up the ramp with the door hanging open, one of them still crawling after it.

Then it’s gone. And the whole car park drops into a silence so total I can hear the conservatory glass ticking in the cold.

Then there’s my daughter’s voice, high and furious and absolutely fine. “You’re squashing me!”

My knees go. I don’t fall, but it’s a close thing, and I end up with my hand flat on somebody’s parked Honda.

Marcello is already moving. He crosses that lot like something coming off a chain, and the man holding my daughter gets out of his way without being told.

He takes her. He goes down on one knee on the wet asphalt and checks her over—both hands, both wrists, her knees, the back of her head, behind her ears.

His own hands aren’t steady. He does it anyway, while she complains bitterly about every bit of it.

When he’s done, he holds her against his shoulder with one hand spread across her back, and he closes his eyes.

One second. That’s all he allows himself.

Then he opens them and he looks straight at me for the first time in eight years.

Not past me. Not a foot to the left. At me, the whole way in.

It goes through me like a current through water. Eight years of a locked door coming open, with everything behind it still burning.

I can’t move. I actually cannot make my feet work.

He walks to me with our daughter on his shoulder. He stops close enough that I have to tip my head back to hold his eyes, close enough to feel the cold coming off his coat.

Then he puts his free hand around my arm.

He touches me.

After what seems like an eternity...

My husband touches me, and my whole body lights up like a switchboard.

I hate myself for it. Enough to cry about, if I’d anything left in me.

“Get in the car. Now.”

Chisa