Page 55 of Daddies of the Underworld

Every day, I told myself not to look for them in her.

Every day I failed.

She had Luca’s ability to talk her way into almost anything, Dante’s quietness, and Matteo’s stare.

With a huff, she closed her eyes again. “Oatmeal’s fine. Cinnamon. Can I have the blue bowl this time? The yellow one tastes funny.”

I’d also learned not to argue with these small defiances that expressed her strong opinions. But I did bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Sure.”

She nodded, satisfied, and tucked her knees into the chair. It was like this most mornings, and I wouldn’t change anything except the fear holding my stomach in a constant vise.

By the time we wrapped up breakfast and prepared for the day, sunlight glittered on the piles of gray snow outside our apartment and the traffic had increased to a constant stream.

Sofia held my hand and hopped over cracks in the sidewalk while I scanned the street, noting the delivery man, the dog walker, and a man sitting in a brown coat near the bus stop.

Same man as yesterday?

No.

Different hat.

I kept walking anyway, turning a block earlier than usual.

Sofia tugged my hand. “School is that way.” She started to point but dropped her hand when I shook my head.

“We’re taking the scenic route today.”

Her nose wrinkled. “The one with the smelly garbage cans?”

“Yes, and the cat cafe with your favorite cat in the window.”

She giggled and resumed skipping alongside me.

At school, I kissed her forehead and waited until the doors closed behind her, then waited another thirty seconds because fear had made me slightly neurotic and motherhood made me protective.

Nothing happened, and I breathed out a white cloud of frigid air and turned to walk to the cafe where I worked instead of taking the bus.

A few more dollars saved and one less chance my face would be on someone’s security footage.

The day passed the same as always in the cafe that smelled like burnt sugar. Mara paid me in cash, no questions asked, and even let me work through lunch since her cousin hadn’t shown up again.

Pride had its place, but being able to pay rent was better.

At three-fifteen on the dot, I had Sofia’s hand in mine, bruised apples in my tote, and a headache setting up camp behind my eyes.

Sofia talked all the way home. First about Henry eating paste twice, then about Mae bringing a pet snake for show-and-tell. Finally, about Ms. Alvarez saying Friday was special.

That one stopped me. “What’s Friday?” I racked my brain for something I might have forgotten.

Her mouth snapped shut. That was new.

I looked down at her purple hat with the crooked pom-pom. “Sof?”

She kicked a chunk of ice off the curb, her shoulders hunching. “Nothing.”

Uh-uh. Not on her life. Nothing, in Sofia language, meant important enough to cause a meltdown later unless I got ahead of the situation.

At home, I handed her a coloring book and crayons, started pasta, and hung laundry over the shower rod while contemplating how to work the information out of her.