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His outburst was met with her scathing voice. “It’s our anniversary. It’s Valentine’s Day!”
“I know that, but they don’t care. When my father says go, I have to go.”
She knew when he took the oath that he’d vowed to be there anytime la famiglia called on him, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Vincent slowed the car when they neared the cutoff in the desert that led to Frankie Antonelli’s property. They climbed out when they reached the house, but Maura lingered by the car. Vincent stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door at the same time a high-pitched squeal rang out. Swinging around, he saw a frail little girl running straight at Maura, knee-high and skinny as a toothpick, her hair matted in dreadlocks. She looked like a sewer rat, covered in filth.
The girl, oblivious to the presence in her path, slammed right into Maura without slowing down. Maura stumbled from the force, and the little girl flew backward onto the ground. Her dirt-smudged nose scrunched up as she eyed the human roadblock.
“You’re awfully dirty, little one,” Maura said.
The little girl looked down at herself. “Where?”
Maura laughed as she crouched down. “You’re dirty everywhere.”
It only took Vincent thirty minutes to handle business that day, but it was a half hour that changed everything. The girl had come barreling into his life, turning everything upside down.
At Maura’s insistence, Vincent inquired about her a week later, but Frankie informed him she wasn’t for sale. No matter how much money he offered, the man wouldn’t budge. Vincent hoped Maura would drop it, but the child became an obsession to her.
And he had been oblivious to it all, living in his shell of ignorance. He was a keen person, but his wife had spent her entire life wearing a mask of secrecy. He had no idea what she was up to, although he should have been aware.
He should have known she would see it as a second chance.
Vincent stood up. “When they come inside, tell her to come on up to my office.”
“Who?”
“You know who, Celia.”
Before he turned around, he saw his sister shake her head. “I still don’t understand why you never say her name.”
* * *
Vincent was typing an email when there was a timid tap on the door. It opened slowly, and she stepped inside. She was a tough girl, the type who kept secrets well. A lot like his wife that way. That thought made him feel like he had been kicked in the gut.
He motioned for her to sit down. “Are you having a good day, child?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Good. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Before I brought you here, do you recall ever seeing me?”
Her face scrunched up, and he smiled involuntarily. It reminded him of the look she gave Maura that day. “No, sir,” she said hesitantly.
“The first time I met you, you were six years old,” he said. “Well, you told my wife you were six, but you held up four fingers.”
She looked startled. “Your wife?”
“Yes, my wife,” he said. “I suppose you wouldn’t remember her, either.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“An apology is unnecessary,” he said. “Anyway, the reason I asked you up here is because I have something to give you.”
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the photograph, sliding it across to her. “I saw your mother a few weeks ago while on business and snapped that picture.”
