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“I just went up and put fresh clothes on her bed. She was already up and in the shower. She didn’t eat much, such a little thing. I think she needs a good bowl of Bolognese,” Maria states, her eyes not leaving her masterpiece.
“What did she eat?” I ask, wanting to know given that she hasn’t eaten in the 24 hours since she has been here.
“The small fruit bowl, and that is it. She didn’t touch the pastries or bread.” Maria sounds astounded, and I know from her healthy roundness that skipping carbs is not something she can fathom.
I nod in acknowledgement, and then notice Leo looking up at me.
“She is just a houseguest, Leo. She won’t be here long, but I’m keeping her here safe with us for now. You don't need to worry.” I answer the question I think he is asking me with his eyes. It must do the trick, because he nods and looks back to his waffles, dribbling more maple syrup over them and eating with gusto.
This is what I don’t understand. Leo looks and acts perfectly fine. He is smart, he eats well, and sleeps without issue. He reads and plays. Sure, he lacks confidence and doesn’t make friends easily. Hell, he won't leave the house to make any. But otherwise, he is 100% healthy, so why he doesn’t talk is an absolute mystery to me. Traumatic Mutism is the terminology that has been thrown around by the various doctors and specialists we have seen.
I leave Leo to finish his waffles and go back to my office to work through some paperwork. We are bringing in new blood, most of which are fresh soldiers from Italy that Sebastian and I spotted when we were there a year ago. New York is new for them, so their onboarding and training has to be thorough before we let them out in the field. Nico is also a new member of our team and currently shadowing Sebastian while he is in Sicily. He is a great addition, and we hope by broadening our search for quality soldiers throughout Italy that we find more men like him.
We have high expectations, and get the fittest and fastest men we can. They also need to be trained in not only family dynamics and all the players both in New York and Sicily, but they need to know every street, every building, every sidewalk of New York and who owns them before they start their first day with us. They will begin with me in the coming weeks, their first posting here at the compound, where they will shadow our teams before doing solo days to get their bearings.
Sitting back in my office chair, I crack my neck and lean my head back against the cool leather, my mind once again wandering to Little Red down the hall. What the hell am I going to do with her?
My cell rings, startling me from my thoughts, and I see my ex-wife's name on the screen. If I thought I was stressed before, my stress levels increase tenfold the minute I see her name. It has been a few months since she’s last called, so it is unexpected, to say the least. Last I spoke with her, she was still high as a kite, full of a toxic mixture of alcohol and drugs, slurring her words about wanting to see my son.
“Angelina,” I grit out as I answer. My blood boils at the very mention of her name passing my lips. She is not worthy of the air I exhale while talking to her.
“Dante.” I am surprised to hear her sounding clear for a change, but I know the truth of her current state will become more apparent the longer she speaks.
“What do you want?”
“I want to see Leo,” she says simply, like she has a right to see him. Like she has forgotten that she gave up that right years ago.
“No.”
“He is my son. You cannot keep him from me.” As predicted, I can hear the tremor in her voice and the slight slur of her words, telling me that drugs or alcohol are still in her system, which only infuriates me further.
“The last fucking time you saw him, he had nightmares for a week and wet the bed for a month. You are not going near him,” I grit out to her, trying to rein myself in, the memory of that time permanently burnt into my brain. I pull at my hair. The frustrations I feel just from hearing her fucking voice grate my insides like rubbing an open wound against rough cement.
“Fuck you, Dante. You can’t stop me from seeing my son!” she screams at me, sounding out of her mind.
“You're unfit to be a parent. I gave you chances, I sent you to rehab, and you didn’t comply,” I reply steadily.
“Fuck you and your need for obedience. He is my son!” I wish she felt this passionately about him while he watched her fuck numerous men.
“Don’t call me again until you have been clean for a year. Then we can talk,” I say before ending the call. I don’t want to be a monster, but nothing will harm my son, not even his own poor excuse for a mother.
I stand up abruptly from my desk and grab my coffee cup, throwing it against the wall. The cup smashes into a million tiny snowflake-like pieces as I seethe in anger. Running my hands through my hair, I take some deep breaths, trying to get myself under control. My eyes flick up to my door when I hear a tap.
“What?” I bark, not in the mood for visitors.
It’s my men, back from Ozone Park, where they grabbed all of Little Red’s things from her hotel. I watch two of them as they walk into my office, and I look down at their hands.
“That’s it?” I ask in question. She has a handbag and a small duffle bag. That can’t be right. I can’t believe that a woman such as Little Red would travel lightly. No woman does.
“That’s it, boss. We spoke with the clerk. She checked in an hour before she went for her run yesterday, so she hadn’t even fully unpacked.”
“Bring it to me.” I take a seat in one of my leather armchairs by the window. The duffle bag is cheap, and as he lays it on the floor, I lean over and unzip it.
I find three tops, two pairs of jeans, a few dresses, and underwear, all perfectly folded neatly in little piles. She has two pairs of shoes and her toiletries as well, but that’s it. Zipping it back up, I pass it back to them.
“Give it to Maria. She will know what to do.”
“This is her handbag, sir,” my other man says, giving me the fake black leather bag.
