GIANNI
It’s nothing but a house, though it’s not the house that’s the problem.
It’s that she would rather live in that tiny dump of a house than with me. She’d rather return to the one place she swore she didn’t want to be, with a father who suffocates her. All because the idea of living with me is too disgusting for her to consider. The blood in my veins is boiling.
The place is dark except for the light over the front door, illuminating a rundown porch. They’ve been gone for half an hour, she and her dad. Roger witnessed it—I didn’t want to be here in case she recognized me on her way out.
She or Charles. That prick. The man’s had it out for me long before our daughters ever met. Even if she didn’t notice me parked halfway down the block, he would have. He’s got a sixth sense when it comes to me.
All the more reason to get the hell out of here before they return.
“What is taking so goddamn long?” I growl into my phone, staring at the upstairs window I know looks into her bedroom. The blinds are drawn, and any innocent neighbor wouldn’t notice the faint glow behind them. They wouldn’t be scanning for it in a quiet, peaceful neighborhood like this.
They don’t know the big, bad wolf has arrived.
I know what to look for, of course, and every moment that glow persists is a moment closer to Roger being discovered when the man of the house returns. I’d imagine he’s working by flashlight, which I doubt makes it easier to get shit done efficiently.
Not my problem.
Roger sighs. “The name of the game is discretion, right? Hiding the camera? Feel free to come in here and do this if you think you could do a better job.”
If I didn't need him so goddamn badly, I'd fire him here and now. Nobody talks to me that way. I'm still Gianni fucking Rossetti.
Gianni Rossetti, who is now parked halfway down the block on the street the woman he loves grew up on. Waiting for his right-hand man to finish planting a camera in her bedroom so I can at least look at her. I’ve become addicted to the sight of her, and the past two days without her have felt like hell. I’m addicted to her scent, her touch, her taste. None of those I’ll get to have again unless I can convince her that nothing was going on with Amalia. I hate the thought of her thinking what we shared wasn’t real.
There’s the option of taking her anyway and keeping her tied to my bed until she promises she’ll never leave, but that’s a bit unconventional, and I highly doubt Tatiana would allow it. My only option is to wait patiently, which is not my strongest attribute.
When she left my house, I knew this was where she would end up. She had no other place to go but was so determined to get away from me. Hence it was obvious that she would go straight back to the one place she wanted to avoid. I recall the things she said about Charles, how he keeps her in a cage. I won’t deny the proof that’s in front of me.
She would still rather live with him than be with me. I’ve been through brutal fistfights that didn’t leave me aching the way that piece of truth does. There’s a pain in my chest, bitter and persistent. She wants nothing to do with me. It pisses me off, yet there’s nothing I can do to make her believe otherwise. I’ve called her a million times, texted her, and tried everything I could to explain the truth to her. Nothing is working. I wouldn’t have to go to such irrational lengths to see her if she would only just listen to what I needed to say.
God, she’s so stubborn and beautiful.
“Are you getting the feed?” Roger’s question stirs me out of my brooding, and just in time. I’m beginning to hate myself for it.
I pick up the tablet and scroll through the app connected to the device. “It's dark,” I groan. “How much fucking longer is this going to take? They could show up at any minute.”
“My hand was over the lens.” He pulls it away, and now the image on the screen is of a girl's bedroom. It’s about as big as my bedroom closet, decorated in pinks and creams. The walls are covered in posters of musicians I vaguely remember Tatiana being interested in years ago. It would seem Charles didn’t bother taking them down when Caterina moved out. I bet he wants to freeze her in time, the soft innocence of his daughter.
There's not much we can relate to, but I can understand his mindset. There are times I don't recognize the woman my daughter has become. There are still days when I expect a freckled ten-year-old to come running in from the pool, dripping water all over the kitchen floor while digging in the freezer for a popsicle.
“I don't like the angle. I want to see the bed.”
“I've already fixed the angle,” he informs me in a tight voice.
“Then change it. Fast.”
“You know…” The image jerks, giving me a clear shot of his scowling face. “This could all be cleared up much easier and much less illegally.”
Illegal. As if we've ever cared about that. “What, you suddenly have qualms about breaking and entering?”
“Breaking. Entering. Installing a camera in a girl's bedroom so you can spy on her. In the home of a detective, by the way, in case you forgot.”
“What's your big idea, genius? How would you handle a situation like this?”
“Well, there are many ways, though you could start by trying to talk to the girl. One-on-one.”
“Do me a favor and get the job done,” I bark into my phone. “I don't pay you to give advice unless I'm asking for it, and I didn't ask for it this time.” I did, just only after he started bitching. I have no idea what’s gotten into him lately—he usually reserves his opinion except in serious matters. Life-or-death shit.
The past few months have marked a turning point. I noticed it before now, when he had too strong an opinion on whether I should use Tatiana as a bargaining chip with Jack Moroni. No matter how many times I swore I had no intention of marrying her off to Jack’s son, he wouldn’t let it go. When did he grow a conscience?
Roger sighs, smart enough to keep his mouth shut while aiming the tiny camera at Caterina’s slim bed.
Telling me to talk to her. As if I haven't tried. As if I haven't spent the past two days crawling out of my fucking skin trying to get a hold of her. Calling, texting, making a horse's ass out of myself by approaching my daughter and asking her to check in, to at least find out whether Caterina is alright, and to tell her how desperate I am to talk.
I have even stooped so low into making a fool of myself in front of my kid—anything, so long as Caterina will give me a chance to explain.
How my ex-wife is a diseased cunt who will stop at nothing to destroy every good thing in my life. How she's dragged her feet for years, refusing to give me a divorce until she gets what she believes is coming to her. My money, as much of it as she can get her hands on. As far as I'm concerned, she might as well not exist. If it weren't for the shit she's put me through, I would have gladly forgotten her name by now. She's never been a mother to our daughter. There's no reason for us to interact otherwise.
In my mind, I'm single. Unattached.
Since when does it matter what it says in the eyes of the law? I've never exactly given a shit about that. A glimpse in the rearview mirror reveals my troubled gaze. The dark circles under my eyes, thanks to sleepless nights spent longing for Caterina’s warmth and sweetness in my otherwise cold bed. “What’s the big deal?”
“What was that?” Roger quips.
I didn't realize I spoke out loud. Now I have to explain myself, something I never do, even in better circumstances. “I said I don't see the big deal.”
“About what?” Roger tweaks the camera’s position another few inches until the bed is centered in the frame. I can also see part of the bedroom door and the mirror over the dresser. It’s as detailed a view as I’m going to get.
“Any of this. You want me to talk to the girl? Fine. Then get her to answer her phone. I've been trying since she left. All because, what? My ex isn't out of the picture completely?”
“That could be.” He’s speaking quietly, tension in his voice while he fixes the camera’s position. According to what he told me, it’s mounted inside the top corner of her bookshelves, partly concealed by a stuffed animal. “She's young. She's already been pushed around.”
“But Amalia doesn't mean anything. She's a pain in the ass and determined to ruin my life. How is that my fault?” I sound like a whiny little bitch. This is what she's made of me. I've grown into a whiny little bitch, begging for a chance to be understood.
“You never told her about the papers not being signed.”
“Why would I?”