Page 19 of Broken Trust

Her?

I wonder if she means Mia, or the baby too. I know she’s a girl, but hearing that she’s here makes me feel happy and sad at the same time.

I want to know more, but I don't want to know the answer, so I don't ask. So I shake my head, and we both naturally take our place at the table, as I settle down the coffee, the way she likes it, and I make some extra muffins for her. She can never resist them.

“I can't believe the one who shouldn't be named hasn't been on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness.”

I tilt my head. She couldn't resist. “He has sent letters.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow.

“I haven't read them.”

She chuckles. “I can imagine what they say. Please, Gia, forgive me. I didn't mean to end up fucking your sister. It was an accident.”

I shouldn't, but it makes me laugh. So hard. And she chuckles too.

“He's a writer. I'm sure whatever he said was poetic.”

She reaches out and bites into her muffin. “This is too good.” She licks a crumb from her thumb. “He didn't call. Not that you would pick up.”

“You know me too well.” I bite into the muffin. “He sent texts. But then I got bored of it all and decided to block him.”

“Damn, Gia. That's cold.”

“Now it makes sense why he started writing letters.” I set my cup down. “Pages and pages of them. I put them in the fire, to save me from burning wood.”

It’s weird, a few days ago, talking about Dante would make me sad, but now he just makes me feel angry, each and every time when I think about all that I did for him. For us.

“Maybe I should buy you a guard dog, just in case he shows up…”

“Come on.” I wave her off. “It's not that bad. We're not resorting to stooping that low.”

“Gia, maybe you could, because I don't like the idea of you being here and hiding as if you've done something wrong.”

I want to defend myself and say that I'm not hiding, but being here is easier. Some days, I just get on with my day, the locals praise me for my baking and cooking, and that's enough.

She sits at the long table with a coffee and she watches me move around the kitchen, and she says, careful, “A place has come up. In the town, the good square, the corner unit with the big windows. Old Benedetti's finally retiring.” She turns her cup around. “It'd make a restaurant. A small one. Yours.”

My hands are still on the board.

“With what money?”

“Yours.” She meets my eye. “You worked so that lying, cheating… when he couldn't even earn a dime. If it wasn't for you…”

“Nella. Don't. I know what happened. I know how I was used.”

She inhales, as if she's sucking all the air out of the room.

“So if you know all this, why are you acting as if he earned those millions alone? He didn't, and you are owed it. You can't stay here and live off the money you're making from the bakery.”

A thought pops into my mind. I remember being in the kitchen with Nonna as a kid, and maybe doing the one thing I'd thought to do back then.

“A restaurant,” I say, testing the word.

Nella smiles, slow. “You, feeding people who chose to walk in the door. Getting paid for the one thing you'd do for free. Under your own name, in the open, where nobody can pretend you're something you're not.”

“Yes,” I say, and my voice doesn't shake. “I'm going to do this. One day I'm going to open my own place. I can't stay here forever, even if it feels easy.”