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Guillaume’s auburn curls catch my attention. He walks through the gate with his brother in tow. Sophie runs to catch up with them, calling after them to wait. She seems annoyed but not sad. It’s an enormous relief. My heart warms as I spy on the trio from my hiding place. They look very different from the dirty, neglected children I first met.
Sophie catches up with her brothers who stopped on the pavement. The boys look up and down the street. I scan the cars parked on the curb as well as in the parking lot, but there’s no sign of the SUV. Just as I’m getting concerned, the SUV rolls up the street and pulls into the parking lot. The kids wave and run toward the vehicle. I expect the same driver from the last time to get out, but instead, Angelo gets out from the driver’s seat.
My pulse spikes. Underneath a black jacket that stretches over his broad shoulders, he wears a crisp, white shirt. The matching suit pants hug his powerful legs. The cut is fitted, emphasizing his perfect physique. His dress shoes are fancy. He’s not wearing a tie. The top two buttons of the shirt are open, adding a casual touch to the formal clothes and giving a glimpse of the black ink on his chest. His dark hair is brushed back. The wavy curls are just messy enough to look sexy.
I duck and flatten my body against the trunk. My heart beats so loudly in my ears it drowns out the sound of the water. When I steal a quick peek, he’s going down on his haunches and opening his arms wide. Sophie runs into his embrace and hugs him tightly.
People stare. Not openly, but they gawk all the same. The moms’ gazes linger as they pass with their offspring in hand.
It’s unfair. He’s too hot to be a mere mortal. The other dads with their beer bellies and balding heads don’t compare. It’s as if a male supermodel walked onto the scene. Add a dangerous mafia boss to the title, and who can blame people for their morbid fascination?
He lets Sophie go and straightens to grip Étienne’s shoulder. He says something, maybe asking how their day was at school. Guillaume replies with animated gestures. An amused smile tilts Angelo’s sensual lips as he gives the boy his full attention.
I blow out a long breath and make myself small behind the tree again, waiting for them to leave before I dare come out of hiding.
A mom with a Labrador puppy on a leash leads a boy of Sophie’s age by the hand down the path over the grass. She stops at the bridge to remove her shoes. When the boy has taken off his sneakers, they cross the bridge hand-in-hand. The puppy strains on the leash, barking excitedly at a duck that’s braved it out on the water. The woman slips and almost loses her balance. Taking advantage of the slack in her hold, the puppy charges to the edge of the bridge. It miscalculated the strength of the flow, because the next minute, the water washes the dog over the side. The woman cries out in alarm as the small body slips through the bars and disappears under the foamy mass of the water.
I suck in a breath, shock freezing me in place.
The woman screams and hangs with her full weight on the leash, but then the tension in the strap gives, and she stumbles back as the leash comes up empty.
“My puppy,” she yells, searching the river with a terrified expression.
I act instinctively, pulling off my sneakers while scouting the maelstrom of water. The puppy’s head breaks through the surface beyond the crush of the water on the other side of the bridge. It’s swimming for all it’s worth as the flow carries it swiftly toward the rapids.
I’m about to charge to the river when a tall, big figure sprints into my line of vision. Angelo removes his jacket in the run, tossing it carelessly onto the muddy bank before diving shoes and all into the water.
At the same time as every muscle in my body gears for action, my heart stops.
The woman utters a shriek.
Angelo surfaces a few meters downstream. He doesn’t seem bothered by the turbulence or the cold of the water. He cuts with ease through the violent flow, his strong breaststrokes quickly eating up the distance between him and the puppy. He catches up with the panicking animal just as it reaches the rapids.
The dog yelps. Angelo scoops it under one arm and uses the other to keep them afloat as the rapids bounce them over the smooth rocks. A few meters farther down, a small waterfall tumbles onto sharper rocks before the river flattens out near the mill. There’s a good chance that Angelo will get his head bashed in. He may be knocked unconscious.
My stomach twists with horror. I’m so caught up in Angelo’s fight against the freezing cold river I only notice now that adults and children are gathered on both banks. Some people are running next to the river, offering hands and long sticks for Angelo to grab.
I’m a good swimmer. I must help him. I’m halfway over the grass when he finds purchase on the overhanging branch of a tree. I watch with my heart beating in my throat as he swings himself and the puppy up and climbs out onto the bank.
The adrenaline that pumps through my veins drops as abruptly as it spiked. Relief crashes down on me. The sensation is so powerful I’m nauseous in its wake.
The owner of the puppy runs toward Angelo, her son following short on her heels.
“Oh my God,” she exclaims, reaching for the puppy.
Angelo hands it over.
“Thank you,” she gushes, hugging the wet dog against her chest. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, brushing his wet hair back with his fingers.
His soaked shirt clings to his chest, emphasizing the well-cut muscles of his pecs and abs underneath. The darker disks of his nipples are visible through the white fabric, as is the black picture tattooed on his chest. She drops her gaze to his torso, cutting a path over the scrumptious picture of masculinity with her eyes. A zap of jealousy hits me straight in the gut.
Someone who exited from a house on the bank runs over with a blanket and wraps it around Angelo’s shoulders. If he looks up now, he’ll look straight at me. I backtrack until I’m in the middle of the crowd, shielded by two tall men.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” the woman says, staring up at his face with a swoony expression.
I’m so close I can hear the breathlessness in her voice, and I bet it’s not from running.
