Page 51 of The Devil's Demise

She starts to fall asleep, and he hands her back to me, kissing her little foot. I give her to Chiara next, and after that, everyone else gets a chance with her. She has so many people who love her. Who would die for her. She’s lucky that way. My beautiful girl. If only Mom and Alison were here to meet her.

Alison.

My throat throbs at the thought of her. I miss her so much, and every chance I get, I visit the makeshift grave we made for her. I needed somewhere to say goodbye, and so did her family. So we decided to give her a proper funeral, with everyone who’s ever loved her.

We did the same for Mom too. The two women who were both mothers to the girl and the woman I became. Without them, would I be who I am? I don’t believe I would be.

Matteo’s still haunted by what he had to do to save me. Shooting her wasn’t easy for him, but I had forgiven him long ago. We’ve all done things we can’t take back. It was our life, and we did the best we could.

But our life is better now. I’m studying to become a teacher. Only a year left until I get my degree, and Matteo is happy running his successful gallery in the city. His work hangs everywhere, selling for more money than either of us even know what to do with. I’m proud of him—the boy who’d sketch photos of me.

My God, it feels like forever ago now. I have every single picture he’s ever made me, framed and hanging on the wall of our bedroom, reminding us that love is a simple kind of beautiful.

CHAPTER4

MATTEO

TEN YEARS LATER - AGE 37

The room’sfilled with a hum of voices, people scattered all around the gallery I own. The event black-tie and the attendees definitely lived up to the dress code. My brother Dom runs a charity event every year for various organizations, and this time it’s for Helping Hand, the nonprofit Jade runs. All the money from my art sold today will be donated to help women just like Aida.

This isn’t the first event I’ve held here. The gallery has grown in popularity in the past years. It’s top three in the city and I’ve sold many of my own sketches and paintings.

Doing something I love, there’s nothing like it. And owning this, having something that’s mine, I can’t explain it. I never thought I’d ever be here—two kids now, and Aida.

My God, I love her.

She doesn’t notice while I stare at her from across the room, a long strappy white gown tight around her curvy body, a modest slit up to her knee. Cyres is in her arms. She’s three and prefers her mother hold her still. But Aida, she doesn’t mind. She’s patient. She’s loving. I can’t help but fall in love with her more every day that we grow older. She’s my muse. My inspiration. She doesn’t realize how true that is, even when I constantly remind her.

That long blonde hair flirts across the small of her back, and I have every urge to take her to the back room and rip that damn dress to shreds.

“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair, not giving a shit that I probably messed it up. “What was that, sir?” Coby, one of my assistants, asks, standing next to me, tapping on the tablet, where he keeps track of the sales.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just thinking out loud. But how are you doing? You okay?” I cant my head forward. “Working too hard?”

“I’m doing good, sir.”

“How are we doing so far tonight?” I face the two sketches hanging on the wall before me. It’s a drawing of two faces merged into one—one part poignant, the other part cheerful. It’s about the multidimensionality of humanity. How we aren’t just one thing or another.

“Great, sir,” he informs. He looks down at the screen, pressing a few keys. “We made two hundred million so far.”

“That’s great.” I nod, knowing how much good that will do for Jade’s center.

He goes to make more rounds with the guests, the place large enough to fit one hundred people. Soft music plays in the background, and I just want to grab my wife and dance the night away. We made a life for ourselves, and goddamn it’s beautiful.

A ten-year-old Cecilia clutches Dante’s hand as they look at a painting I did of her a few years ago, her hair long and blonde like her mother’s. It billows in the air, her arms up to the sky as she spins upon the greenest grass, butterflies of all colors dancing with her. The clouds are dark, the storm coming in. But she’s dancing anyway, because sometimes that’s what we have to do to make it through the darkness.

“Someone bought that one,” I tell my daughter, and as she winds toward me, I swoop lower to kiss her on the forehead.

“How could they not?” Dante asks with awe in his voice.

“Thanks,” I say, pushing away the compliment. It’s never been my thing. I just do what I do, hoping it brings something meaningful to someone else.

“I wish I could paint as well as you, Daddy.” Cecilia sighs.

“And I wish I could dance as well as you, angel.” She is some dancer. Her ballet teacher says she can try out for one of the top dance schools in the city.

“Sir.” Coby walks up to us just then, his thick black brows practically sweating. “There’s a woman there who’d like to speak to you about two of your paintings.”

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