Page 54 of Daddies of the Underworld

The service gate stuck when I pushed it, swollen from rain and years of neglect. I shoved harder, biting back a sob when rust tore at my palm before it opened.

I looked back once and paused to take in the sight of Villa Belladonna holding strong against the storm, golden and impossible, the most beautiful cage I had ever mistaken for home.

The fairytale shattered at my feet, and my hand covered my stomach. “I’ll keep you safe.” I had someone else’s life to think about now. Someone who would be helpless and would need my protection more than the three men I was leaving behind.

I faced the road, drew my hood up over my head, and stepped through the gate.

16

NINA

FIVE YEARS LATER…

The sound of airbrakes hissing from the street snapped me out of sleep and into a state of alertness in a heartbeat. I sat up, hand going to the small knife tucked beneath my pillow.

The gift from Matteo had been with me through every move, and even now, after all this time, it brought me comfort.

The apartment was dark except for the orange smear of streetlight cutting through the blinds. The truck I’d heard groaned again, the press of brakes turning into a grinding cough from a failing engine. I stayed still, listening, until the truck moved on.

Grimacing at the early hour, I rolled out of bed, silenced the alarm, and padded across the cold floor. Chicago in February had no mercy. The wind came in through the windows, under the doors, and burrowed into my bones.

The radiator in our apartment clanked when it kicked on, but I welcomed the familiar noise, along with the burst of warmth.

Coffee. I needed coffee. I filled the reservoir with water, added the grounds, and pressed all the necessary buttons without turning on any lights.

I’d had to learn to function in the dark when turning on a light meant answering five million questions before dawn. While the ancient pot sputtered, I checked the locks.

Deadbolts on every door, along with sliding chain locks. Windows with latches and bits of wood tucked into the corners as a backup.

I had a five-year-old, a fake name, and a healthy respect for my paranoia and gut instinct. I ran when either of them told me to, and I didn’t look back.

My phone sat facedown on the counter, nothing but a prepaid that didn’t support social media. I didn’t take pictures of my daughter at school events or post about our lives. I wasn’t part of the PTA–though it sounded fun–and so far Sofia had not asked to play any sports that might require me to provide more information than I was comfortable sharing.

We’d changed apartments four times in the last five years. She didn’t remember any of them, but that would change soon.

More questions would come, and I’d been trying for a year to come up with answers.

Switching jobs was the hardest part, but I’d become even better at managing our cashflow.

The emergency envelope beside the microwave held less than I wanted but it was better than nothing. Rent, groceries, utilities, and enough for Sofia’s upcoming field trip.

I counted the bills again just to be sure, then tucked the envelope away as a small voice came from Sofia’s room. “Mama?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” I managed a smile as I turned, and it turned genuine as Sofia came into my sight wearing her unicorn pajamas, one sock, and rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Dark curls stuck out around her face, and she frowned when I poured coffee into the biggest mug I owned. “You said coffee isn’t breakfast.”

“It’s a grown-up exception on some days.” I took a sip, barely managing not to grimace at the black brew. I usually used cream, but the price had gone up last week and Sofia’s field trip mattered more than my coffee not tasting like burnt beans.

Sofia climbed into her chair at the table and rested her head on her crossed forearms. “That sounds like cheating.”

“Mm.” I ignored the bitter bite from a second sip and pulled the oats from the cabinet. “Oatmeal or eggs?”

“Pancakes.” She yawned and her eyes fluttered shut, dark lashes fanning over her cheeks.

“We’re out of mix.”

Her eyes opened, and she considered me with a quiet solemnity that reminded me of Dante.