Page 30 of The Devil's Den

I never asked Matteo for his birth date. What a friend I am. I guess because it’s been so insignificant in my life, I forget it may matter to others. But when I had finally asked yesterday and realized his was like two weeks before mine and I missed it… God, that look on his face. It broke my heart.

I promised myself that every year he’s here, we’d celebrate it, and though he may have turned fifteen already, it doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate it late.

So, I asked Ms. Greco to make him a cupcake of his own today, and I also asked her if she’d buy him a notebook and some colored pencils. My dad will probably kill us both if he ever found them, but I’ve kept them hidden under my mattress. A lesson I picked up from Matteo.

“They’re done,” she says, as the timer on the oven beeps, and I instantly hop off the stool as she retrieves a tray full of chocolate cupcakes. He once told me how his father owned a bakery and how he’d made the best Oreo cupcakes, which were his favorite. Ms. Greco and I were so excited to make them for him. I just hope they’re close to what he remembers.

Robby giggles on the high chair, throwing pasta on the floor, his face covered in tomato sauce, a toothy grin you can’t help but love.

“Robby!” Ms. Greco tsks playfully, cleaning up his mess while the cupcakes cool. Once he’s happily playing with his teether, we start on the frosting. “Do you think he’ll like them?” I ask as I mash up a bunch of Oreos.

“You know what I think?” Her smile drapes her entire face with warmth, as she cuts up some butter before tossing it into the bowl.

“What?”

“I think that boy is going to love anything you make him.”

“You think?” My cheeks heat up as I try to hide them by peering into the bowl, not wanting her to know Matteo and I like each other, that we’ve kissed. A lot.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Oh, Aida. You have to see the way he looks at you when we’re down there together. It’s like he can’t stop staring, even when you’re not staring back.”

I instantly look up, wide-eyed. “Don’t tell Dad, okay?”

“Of course not. I’d never say a word.” Her focus returns to baking, using the mixer, her voice growing low. “You’re allowed to like people, Aida. No matter what your father says or does.”

“That’s kind of hard to do.” I bring over the Oreos and pour them in with the butter mixture. “He doesn’t let me have a life. Matteo’s the only kid my age I can hang out with and that’s not even hanging out.”

Turning off the mixer, she places a tender palm over my cheek. “I know, sweetheart. Your life is cruel, and still, you make the best of it. You both do. I’m really proud of you for that. Not everyone would be this strong. I know I wouldn’t.”

“You’re strong too,” I say, instantly swinging my arms around her middle in a tight hug, loving her so much. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

We get to frosting all the cupcakes. She only made four, not wanting my dad to flip out when he didn’t okay this. Ms. Greco has to inform him of what she plans to cook and bake each day. If he doesn’t give his approval, she can’t make it. He’s insane.

She took a big risk for me and I adore her for it. We’re lucky my father’s man, Louis, doesn’t guard the house anymore like he used to. Maybe my father realized we’re too scared to run, and he wouldn’t be wrong. Louis still comes once each morning to empty Matteo’s bucket and let him have a shower before storming back out.

I finish up the last cupcake, placing two in a bowl for Matteo, both with a candle in it, but neither is lit. We can pretend though. And I’ll sing him the best happy birthday song anyone has ever sung.

“Alright,” Ms. Greco nervously says. “Hurry, before your father surprises us and comes home.”

“Yeah, okay.” I scoop up the bowl, carrying it out of the kitchen, starting for the hallway. But before I could make it down into the basement, the front door swings open.

Oh no!

I suck in a breath, my body creeping with a shudder as I try to hurry out of sight, the bowl rattling in my palms, almost slipping.

“Where you rushing to?” My father’s fiery tone skitters up my spine. A tight knot forms in my throat and my knees buckle. “Hello!” he shouts. “What the fuck are you doing? Turn around and show me what you got.”

“Nothing, Dad.” I discreetly start removing the candles while numbed in place. One quietly hits the bowl but as I slip off the other, it falls out of my jittery hand and lands on the floor beside my feet.

His footfalls are rough as they approach me from behind, my breathing going ragged. I will the fear away, swallowing it down where he can’t see it, where I don’t feel it, but it doesn’t work. Because fear is all I’ve ever known. His hand hits my shoulder as he tightens it until it hurts.

“Did you really think you were going to get away with this shit?” He drops the hand away, crouching to retrieve the candle. Once he rights himself, he violently turns me around. I hold on to that bowl for dear life, my lungs heaving with short breaths.

He levels me with a glowering look. “Where the fuck were you going with that?”

I instantly shrivel up, my arms slithering with goose bumps. “I was just going to bring one to Matteo.” I sweeten up my voice, hoping to pierce that rock of a heart he has, but it’s no use. Nothing could make him love me. Nothing will make him human.

“Who the fuck told you he’s allowed dessert in my fucking house? Does this look like a damn restaurant to you?” His face nears mine and nerves roll in my stomach, heavy, thick dread crawling up my throat. “He’s not our fucking guest. He’s our prisoner. I allow him to eat my goddamn food and that’s all he’s gonna get!”

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