Rosie is holding the photograph of Tony I put by her bed and is talking about all the things she can’t wait to do with him when she finally sees him. The photographs of Tony were ones I had taken, stolen starting the first week. He had been standing in the kitchen making dinner, and I had my phone up and accidentally taken one. I was surprised how good it was for being taken by accident. After that, I took almost a dozen more.
I hadn’t bothered decorating my original apartment because I found out about the baby and wanted to move into this two-bedroom apartment. Growing up, I had been forced to share a room with my mother and sometimes all four of us were in one bedroom. I didn’t want Rosie to go through the same thing.
When I moved in, none of the art I used to love appealed. Instead, I had pictures of Tony made into photographs and large prints to hang on the walls. I wanted Rosie to know her father. There was also a part of me that needed to be able to see him every day.
Kissing Rosie, I study her face. She looks like me, but there is enough of Tony in her that every time I look at her, I ache. She has his blue eyes and his stubborn jaw. A few times she has tilted her head and studied me so like Tony and Dominic, I fought not to cry as she did it.
I’m lucky that she only really started asking about Tony a little more than a year ago. I told her, and anyone who asked his work kept him away in Chicago. Rosie has asked everything I know of him, and I swear she has his steel-trap mind and hasn’t forgotten a single thing I’ve told her.
I nod, as I affirm how much her daddy loves tea parties, praying I’m right. I’m such a coward even now. When I made up my mind two days ago, I should have just told Hamish and Anna I needed to quit. It didn’t matter I had signed a contract that wasn’t up for another five months; I wanted to go home. It was long past time.
I hadn’t been able to keep Rosie from telling Delia, her nanny, who was now wondering aloud if she needed to find a new job. Considering how hard it had been to find someone who spoke Italian, if she quits now, I’m screwed. Rosie’s English could be better.
For the first three years, I was the stay-at-home mom Tony wanted me to be. I lived off my retirement money without hesitation. While I was home with her, it was the mix of Latin and Italian Tony had wanted for his children. I hadn’t been able to deny his wish since I had already taken so much from him. One day, I would send Rosie to meet him. I wanted him to be proud of how I raised her. At the time, I thought it would be in her teens. But with every year, the age moved closer and closer. Until I finally stopped fighting what I’ve always known. I will never be happy without him.
There is no doubt in my mind he hates me, and that hate won’t go away easily. My hope is the hate is bound up in love, even if I understand that he probably resents it after all these years. I would never tell anyone, but as I lay awake at night, longing for him I feel his own longing reaching out to me. As painful as it was, it gave me an odd peace. Despite what I believed, what led me to walk away, I was wrong. Tony loved me. He had always loved me, and just like for me it hadn’t died—even with time and distance.
“Mommy, I’m so excited. I can’t wait to meet my Papa.” She sighs into my neck. “Are you sure he loves me? Even though he’s never met me?”
“I’m very sure. Your daddy loved you before you were born. He’s going to be so happy to meet you.” And hopefully, that love will keep him from killing me for keeping his daughter from him.
***
Tony
The pounding on the door has me out of my office without even checking the camera. Dominic is at the door. What’s he doing knocking when he has a key? “What’s the matter?”
“Can I come in?”
“Of course, this is your home.”
He walks past me into the library and goes straight for the scotch. I watch with concern as he pours an almost full glass and drinks it down. What the hell is going on? “Regina, okay?”
“Linda Moretti.”
“What about Linda Moretti?” I wonder why the hell he’s bringing up a woman from thirty-five years ago. How does he even know about Linda Moretti? He doesn’t say another word, his eyes so like mine are churning with anguish and it hits me.
“No.” I’m wrong. He’s wrong.
“Luca Moretti, the capo who runs Vegas. It was like looking in a mirror.”
Fucking hell.
“Al couldn’t have kids.”
I knew Al Toro. I met him a handful of times. He was Carlo’s brother and the capo who ran Vegas before Luca took over from him. Al had a reputation for being a drunk bastard. And he raised my boy.
A prayer for strength flows out of me. Strength I’m not sure I have for this.
“His plane gets in at two. I told Carlo you and I would be at his place when Luca gets there, where he’ll be staying while he’s in town.”
Shaking my head. “Al was an angry drunk. Luca, I know so little of him.” I’ve heard of him, almost all of it good. But he is my flesh and blood, and I don’t know nearly enough.
Dominic pulls out his phone and dials, putting it on speaker. “Mr.
