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CHAPTER FOUR

Eighteen months later

‘LOOK AT ME, Aunt Emma!’

Emma waved to her nephew as he clambered to the top of the climbing frame at the playground near her sister’s house. It was late October, and the leaves of the maple trees in the little park were scarlet, the sky above a cloudless blue. It was a beautiful, crisp day, and yet even so she couldn’t keep herself from picturing the mountains of Sicily, and remembering how clear and pure the air was up there at this time of year.

Shivering slightly in the chill wind, Emma told herself to stop thinking about Sicily. She would never go back there. Never see the Nebrodi mountains again. Never see Larenzo Cavelli again.

Which was just as well, considering the man was a criminal.

Instinctively her gaze moved to the stroller a few feet away, where her daughter Ava was sleeping peacefully. She was ten months old, born on Christmas Eve, and Emma still marvelled at her. Still marvelled at the way her own life had changed so drastically.

When she’d discovered she was pregnant, she’d been shocked and numb for days, as well as embarrassed that she hadn’t even thought about birth control when she’d been with Larenzo. That was how much he’d affected her. How much she’d wanted him in that moment.

Meghan, as eagle-eyed as ever, had guessed she was pregnant within a matter of days, and Emma had ended up telling her sister everything.

‘What do you want to do?’ Meghan had asked in her direct way as they’d sat at her kitchen table, Emma shredding tissues while Meghan got up to make tea. ‘I love babies,’ she continued as she switched on the kettle, ‘and I think each one is a blessing, but I’ll support you no matter what.’

‘Thank you,’ Emma had answered, sniffing. ‘Truthfully, I don’t know what to do. I never planned on marrying or having a family...not that marriage is a possibility in this case.’

‘Why haven’t you?’ Meghan asked, one hip braced against the counter as she fixed Emma with a thoughtful stare. ‘Most people think about being with someone, at least.’

‘I don’t know.’ Emma shredded another tissue, avoiding her sister’s perceptive gaze. ‘You know me. I like to be on the move. See new things. I don’t want to be held down.’

‘And a baby is the ultimate in being held down,’ Meghan answered with a sigh.

‘Yes...’ Which made it seem simple, but Emma felt as if nothing was.

‘I know Mom leaving affected you badly, Em,’ Meghan said quietly. ‘More than it did me. I was at college. I was already out of the way.’

‘She was your mother too,’ Emma answered, still not looking at her sister. By silent agreement she and Meghan had never really talked about their mother. Emma hadn’t even seen her in at least five years. Louise Leighton had moved to Arizona with her second husband when Emma was still in high school; Emma had spent a wretched few months out in Arizona with her, but it had been awkward and stilted and just generally awful, and she’d left pretty quickly, after one blazing argument. Her mother hadn’t protested.

Since then, beyond a few pithy emails, her mother had never made any attempt to contact her. She didn’t know if Meghan was in touch with her or not; she’d never asked, told herself she didn’t care.

‘Anyway,’ Meghan resumed, ‘what I’m trying to say is, I understand if motherhood scares you. You didn’t have the best example.’

‘I’m not scared,’ Emma answered. She pressed a hand against her middle, almost as if she could feel the tiny life moving inside her. ‘I just feel like my whole life has been upended. Everything that happened in Sicily...’ She trailed off, fighting against the memories that continued to swamp her, and Meghan came over to give her a hug.

‘It’s hard,’ she said. ‘And you have some time.’

As the days slipped by Emma had come to accept this new life inside her, and realise that, to her amazement, she actually welcomed it. She watched her sister with Ryan and knew she wanted that same kind of bond, that closeness with another person. Already she felt a surprising and unshakeable love for this person who was a part of her.

Once she had pictured her life unspooling like a rainbow-coloured thread as she traipsed about the world, having adventure after adventure. But perhaps motherhood would be the greatest adventure of all.

It had been that, she thought now as she gazed at her sleeping daughter. From the moment she’d been born, dark-haired and grey-eyed, Ava had possessed the Cavelli charisma. Whether she was screaming to be fed or simply demanding to be heard, the force of her personality could not be denied. She was her father’s daughter.

And her father was serving life in prison.

Emma had had a year and a half to become accustomed to the fact that Larenzo was a Mafioso, and yet the knowledge still had the power to stun her. She couldn’t look back on their one night together without experiencing a shaft of bittersweet longing, as well as a sense of bewilderment that the man she’d thought she’d known, at least a little, was someone else entirely.

‘Are you almost ready to go?’ Meghan asked as she walked up to her in the park. Her cheeks were red with cold and she cradled a thermos of coffee. ‘Ryan will want his lunch before playgroup, and, if I’m not mistaken, your little madam is going to wake up soon and want hers.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ With a wry look for her sleeping daughter, Emma reached for the handles of the pram.

‘Emma...’ Meghan began, and Emma tensed instinctively. She’d known a conversation was coming; she’d been living with Meghan and her husband, Pete, for over eighteen months now. They’d been happy to support her through her pregnancy and she’d taken a few odd cleaning jobs until she’d been too ungainly to manage it, in order to contribute to the household expenses.

Then Ava had been born, and her life had become a sleepless whirlwind; she’d stood in its centre, dazed and helpless to do much other than care for this baby that still managed to startle her with her existence.

But her daughter would be a year soon and Emma knew she needed to find her own way. Make her own life, for her own sake as well as her sister’s.

‘I know,’ she said quietly, her gaze on Ava sleeping in the pram, the pink blanket pulled up to her chin, which had a cleft the same as Larenzo’s. ‘I need to get a move on.’

‘No.’ Meghan put a hand on Emma’s arm. ‘I wasn’t going to say that. I’d never say that, Emma. You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like. Always.’

Emma shook her head. She knew her sister meant well, but she also knew that she couldn’t stay. She hadn’t contributed anything to the household finances since Ava’s birth, and she and Ava had taken up the spare bedroom for far too long. Meghan and Pete wanted more children, and they needed the space.

‘I’ve been meaning to get my act together for months now,’ she told her sister. ‘I’ve just—’ she let out a long, low breath ‘—felt frozen, I suppose. And keeping Ava fed and changed has taken more energy than I care to admit.’ She let out a shaky laugh. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

‘Motherhood is never easy, and Ava is a demanding baby,’ Meghan answered. ‘But this isn’t about me or Pete, Emma. It’s about you. What’s best for you. I want you to have your own life. Maybe meet someone...’

Emma shook her head. She couldn’t even think about meeting someone. She might not have loved Larenzo Cavelli or had her heart broken, but even so something in her felt a little dented. A bit bruised. And she’d never been interested in a serious relationship anyway. She was even less so now, with a bad experience and a baby in tow.

‘I know I need to get a job.’

‘It’s not about money—’

‘But it is, Meghan, at least in part. As wonderful as you are, you can’t support me for ever. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I chose to have a child. I need to step up.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know I seem like a sleep-deprived zombie most of the time, but I have been thinking about possibilities. Maybe moving to New York and getting a job there, something to do with photography.’

As far as a plan went, it wasn’t very sensible, and Emma could tell her sister thought so from the look on her face. ‘New York? But it’s so expensive. And I’m not sure there are too many jobs in photography going...’

‘I know, but...’ The other option was staying in New Jersey, finding some poky apartment she could afford on the salary she’d get as a waitress or cleaner, the only kind of job for which she was qualified. ‘I like to dream,’ she admitted with a wry sigh, and Meghan nodded in understanding.

‘What about another job as a housekeeper? A live-in position, so you could have Ava with you?’

‘I’m not sure there are many of those going around.’

‘You only need one.’

‘True.’ Emma glanced down at her daughter, who was starting to stir, her little face turning red as she screwed her features up in preparation for one of her ear-splitting howls. ‘We’d better get going,’ she told Meghan. ‘Princess Ava needs her lunch.’

Back at the house she and Meghan fed Ava and Ryan, and then ate their own lunch while the two children played nearby.

‘All right, let’s do this,’ Meghan said, ever practical, and resolutely Emma nodded as her sister pulled her laptop towards her and brought up the webpage for an agency that supplied jobs in the cleaning and hospitality industries.

Emma suppressed a groan as some of the available jobs scrolled by: night-time cleaning at a business park in Newark, janitorial work in a local elementary school.

‘I don’t...’ she began, but Meghan cut her off with a quick shake of her head.

‘We’ll find something. Something perfect. There’s no rush.’

But there was a rush, Emma thought glumly, even if she didn’t want to say as much to her sister. Meghan might be happy to have her stay indefinitely, but she wasn’t always so sure about Pete; as the breadwinner he surely felt the strain on the family finances more than anyone.

And she also knew she wanted more for her life than living in a spare bedroom, changing diapers and dreaming of sleep.

Maybe a poky apartment and a job cleaning school toilets would be it, at least for the interim. If she was careful she could save enough money to go somewhere, maybe travel again, this time with Ava. She pictured herself working her way through Europe, her baby in a backpack, and, while it held a certain quirky charm, she was also realistic enough to acknowledge how difficult that would be.

She could, she supposed, go to stay with her father, but he had been decidedly nonplussed about his unmarried daughter having a baby by a man who was serving a life sentence in prison, and in any case her father was immersed in his work, as he had been since his wife had left him fifteen years ago. He hadn’t even seen Ava yet.

No, she needed to do something on her own. Stand on her own two feet, however wobbly she was.

‘Let me have a look,’ she said, and pulled the laptop towards her. She browsed the jobs for a few more minutes, taking down details, until Ava started crying, ready for her afternoon nap.

‘I’ll take her upstairs,’ Emma said, scooping her protesting daughter into her arms. Ava wrapped her chubby arms around Emma’s neck and snuffled against her chest. Her daughter was demanding, even difficult, but she still managed to make Emma’s heart melt with love. She’d never regret her decision, even if she ended up cleaning toilets for the rest of her life.

Life could still be an adventure, she told herself as she settled Ava in her crib. It was all about attitude. No matter where she was or what she did, she could still enjoy her daughter, maybe even try photography again. She hadn’t picked up her camera since Ava’s birth, except to take a few photos of her daughter. The spontaneous, candid moments she’d captured on film all over the world had been hard to find here, and Emma had been too exhausted and overwhelmed to look for them.

She was just coming downstairs, Ava asleep hopefully for at least an hour and Meghan at playgroup with Ryan, when the doorbell sounded. Hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Ava, ever a light sleeper, Emma went to answer it.

And stared straight into the face of Larenzo Cavelli. Shock blazed through her as she looked at him; he was thinner, the angles of his cheekbones a little sharper, everything about him a bit harder. A faint scar ran down one cheek, starting by his eyebrow and ending at his jaw. She noticed these changes distantly, her mind dazed and spinning; she could not actually believe it was him. He was here. How? And why?

‘Larenzo...’ she finally managed, her voice a rasp, and his face didn’t show so much as a flicker of emotion as he answered.

‘Hello, Emma.’

* * *

Larenzo gazed at Emma dispassionately; she was clearly shocked to see him, but he felt nothing when he looked at her, except perhaps a twinge of remorse, a flicker of bittersweet memory. That night they’d shared so long ago felt as if it had happened to someone else. It had happened to someone else. Eighteen months in prison changed you. For ever.

‘May I come in?’ He took a step towards her and she drew her breath in sharply, one hand fluttering to her throat.

‘Don’t—’ she began, and he stilled. She almost looked afraid. Afraid of him.

‘Do you think I’m going to hurt you?’ he asked, wondering why he was surprised. Everyone else had believed the worst of him. Why shouldn’t she?

Emma’s eyes widened, her hand still at her throat. ‘I don’t—I don’t know. Why are you here, Larenzo?’

Her voice wavered; she really was afraid. She thought he was dangerous. It should have occurred to him before, of course. He’d thought all of his naive delusions about humanity had been stripped away, but clearly he’d clung to this last one. The memory of his one night with Emma had sustained him through prison. He didn’t like having it tarnished now.

‘I’m here,’ he finally said, his voice cool, ‘because I felt I owed you something.’

‘You don’t.’

‘Considering your employment with me ended so abruptly, I thought you deserved some recompense,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘Recompense...’

He stepped past her and dropped the envelope with the bank draft onto the hall table. ‘Six months’ pay. I thought you should have it.’

She stared at the envelope with something like revulsion. ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’

‘This money was honestly earned,’ Larenzo informed her coldly. ‘I can promise you that.’

‘Why should I believe anything you say?’ she shot back. ‘How are you even here? The judge gave you life in prison—’

‘I was released last week. Clearly you don’t read the papers.’

‘No, I...’ She licked her lips, her gaze still wide. ‘I haven’t had time.’

‘Well, if you’d read them,’ Larenzo said, his voice coming out in a cold drawl, ‘you would have known that all the charges against me were dropped.’

‘They were?’ She looked bewildered, her gaze darting between him and the stairs. Was she thinking of making a run for it, barricading herself in a bedroom? Did she really think he was going to hurt her? He was caught between fury and despair at the thought, and then he blanked out both emotions. He might have held onto the memory of Emma through prison, and their night together might have compelled him to find her now, but he didn’t actually feel anything for her. He couldn’t feel anything at all.

‘Yes, they were. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Obviously. Unless you thought I’d escaped?’ He arched an eyebrow, smiled as if this were all so very amusing. ‘Stage-managed some sort of breakout?’

‘I...I don’t know what I think.’ She walked slowly past him, to the small sitting room at the front of the house. Larenzo followed her, watched as she sank onto the sofa, her head in her hands.

‘How did you find me here?’ she asked after a long, silent moment, her head still bowed.

‘This was the address you gave on your employment application.’

She glanced up at him, her eyes widening once more. ‘And you came all the way to America to give me six months’ pay? If you really possessed such a conscience to see me adequately recompensed, you could have just deposited it in my bank account. You should have my details from when I was in your employment.’

Larenzo’s mouth tightened. ‘I was in America anyway.’ She shook her head slowly, still dazed. Larenzo let his gaze rove over her, remembering her golden skin, her laughing eyes that looked so serious and dark now. She looked different, he realised. More womanly. She must have gained a little weight, and yet it suited her. Her breasts were fuller under the soft pink sweater she wore, and her face was a bit rounder. Her skin was as golden as he’d remembered, her golden-brown hair wavy and tousled about her face. His golden girl. What a joke.

‘Why are you in America?’ she asked and Larenzo snapped his gaze away from her.

‘I’m relocating to New York.’

‘New York—’

‘Is that a problem?’ he enquired coolly. ‘I only came here to give you your pay.’

‘I know, but...’ She glanced up towards the stairs once more, and Larenzo’s gaze narrowed. That was the second time she’d done that. What was upstairs? Was Emma hiding something from him? God knew he’d learned to become suspicious of everyone and everything. Trust was a concept he no longer even remotely considered.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly, as if coming to a decision. She rose from the sofa. ‘Thank you for the six months’ pay. That was...kind of you, considering.’

‘Considering?’ he repeated, his gaze narrowing. ‘Considering what?’

Colour washed Emma’s cheeks. ‘Just the situation...’

‘You mean considering I’m a criminal? Is that what you mean, Emma?’ He didn’t know why he was pushing her, only that he was. That he wanted her to say it, admit what she thought of him. Perhaps it would be like lancing a wound.

Emma lifted her chin, her eyes flashing in challenge. ‘And what if it was?’

‘I thought you knew me better than that.’

‘I didn’t know you at all, Larenzo. You were my employer, and I saw you a few times. We never even had a proper conversation before—’ She stopped abruptly, the colour deepening in her cheeks as she looked away.

‘Before what?’ he demanded, his voice low and insistent. He was punishing himself as much as her by raking this all up, bringing the memories he’d tormented himself with to the fore. ‘Before I made love to you? Before you wrapped your legs around my waist and—’

‘Don’t.’ The single word came out in a suffocated whisper. ‘Don’t remind me.’

Larenzo’s lip curled. ‘You don’t want to remember?’

‘Of course I don’t.’ She glared at him, her golden-green eyes full of misery. ‘I don’t know why you were released from prison, Larenzo, or why the charges against you were dropped, but I just want you out of my life.’ She pressed her lips together as she held his stare. ‘I trust that won’t be an issue.’

‘An issue?’ he repeated. Fury beat through his veins, fired his blood. ‘I came here as a matter of courtesy. Clearly the effort was wasted.’

‘I think it’s best if you go now.’

‘Fine.’ He nodded curtly and curled his hands into fists at his sides, not trusting himself not to grab her by the shoulders and demand to know what he’d ever done to make her think he was a mobster. A Mafioso. Mio Dio, how could everyone he’d ever known have judged him so harshly and completely?

Because the evidence had been there, thanks to Bertrano. Because he’d confessed, even if he’d felt he had no choice.

She held his gaze, her chin still lifted, her shoulders thrown back, standing proud and defiant even though he knew she was afraid. Of him.

He opened his mouth to say something of his innocence, but then he closed it. Why claim something she would never believe? ‘Goodbye,’ he said instead, and turned towards the hallway.

A child’s cry suddenly echoed from upstairs. From the corner of his eye he saw Emma freeze, her face drain of colour. He wouldn’t have thought anything of the cry, considering he knew Emma was living with her sister and her family. And yet...

The child cried again, the plaintive wail of a baby. Emma didn’t move. Neither did Larenzo. Every sense he had was on alert, although for what he could not say.

‘Aren’t you going to go to the child?’ he asked, his voice deliberately mild as the baby continued to cry, the sobs becoming louder and more urgent.

Emma swallowed, and he watched the workings of her slender throat. ‘I will. When you leave.’

He gazed at her for a taut moment, saw how her eyes had become huge golden pools in a face drained of colour. ‘Is it your sister’s child? Why is she not going to fetch the bambino?’

‘She’s not here.’ Emma licked her lips, and Larenzo thought he saw panic in that wide gaze. ‘Please, Larenzo. Just go.’

‘I will.’ He cocked his head towards the stairs. ‘But maybe you should get the bambino first.’

‘No.’ The word came out like a gunshot, fast and loud. Larenzo raised his eyebrows. Emma stared him down. ‘I told you, I don’t want you here. Now go.’ Her voice rose in a raggedy edge of terror, and Larenzo took a step towards her.

‘What are you hiding from me, Emma?’

‘Nothing—’ But it sounded feeble. He took another step towards her.

‘Tell me the truth. You’re hiding something. I don’t know what it could be, but—’

‘What do you think I’m hiding from you?’ she cut him off scornfully. She nodded towards the stairs. ‘A baby?’

The words hung there, seeming to echo through the sudden silence of the room. Larenzo stared at her, saw how bloodless her lips were as they parted soundlessly.

The thought hadn’t fully formed in his mind until she’d said the words. He’d sensed she was hiding something, had felt her panic and fear, had heard the baby cry...

And yet it hadn’t all come together for him. But it did now, crystallising with shocking clarity, and without a word for her he turned from the room and bounded up the stairs.

‘Larenzo—’ She hurried after him, one arm flung towards him in desperate supplication. ‘Larenzo, please, don’t—’

He could hear the child crying, the voice pitiful and plaintive. ‘Mama. Mama.’

‘Please,’ she said again, choking on the word, and Larenzo ignored her.

Mama. Mama.

He threw open the door and came to a complete and stunned halt as he saw the baby standing in her crib, chubby fists gripping the rail, cherubic face screwed up and wet with tears.

Emma came into the room behind him, breathing hard, and the baby flung her arms out towards her. ‘Mama.’

And Larenzo knew. He would have known just by looking at the child, with her ink-dark hair and large grey eyes, the cleft in her chin. He turned to Emma, who was gazing at him with undisguised panic.

‘When,’ he asked in a low, deadly voice, ‘were you going to tell me about my child?’