Page 90 of The Deal

I can’t see the soles of my feet from this position, but I can tell they are cut up by the way they throb. The pain is sharp and pulsing, but even that won’t hold me back from fleeing again the first chance I get.

My mother rushes towards us when Alexander enters the house with me in his arms. “Donzella,” she cries. “Your feet!”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap.

“Chlo,” Giovanni yells as he bolts down the hallway, his small, stuffed teddy swinging wildly in his hand. His eyes are puffy and red like he’s been crying, and the sight of him pulls at something deep inside me. I didn’t even consider his feelings when I fled, leaving him behind with these two monsters.

Yesterday, I would’ve been ready to move mountains to help Alexander fight for full custody of that little boy. Giovanni deserves stability, love, and safety, and I believed, without a doubt, that Alexander could give him that. But after learning what I have tonight, after seeing the truth behind the scenes, I’m not so sure anymore.

I’m starting to wonder if Giovanni might be better off with his poor excuse of a mother; at least she’s the devil he knows. Maybe that’s less dangerous than whatever twisted reality Alexander’s dragging him into. She may be self-absorbed, but his father is a lying, manipulative fraudster who is willing to stoop to any level to get what he wants.

When he places me down gently on the sofa, Giovanni immediately climbs onto my lap and snuggles into my chest. “I’m so glad you came back,” he says, his little voice cracking, and that makes me feel even shittier.

“I’ll get something for her poor feet,” my mother says.

The moment Alexander’s gaze shifts toward the soles of my feet, he looks ready to self-combust.

He stiffens, his entire posture rigid as if the idea of someone else tending to me is enough to ignite something dangerous within him.

“I’ll do it,” he growls.

Chapter 29

Alexander

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur under my breath when I squat down to get a closer look at the soles of her feet. They are cut to shreds. What the fuck was she thinking running through the bush barefoot?

I grab the washcloth and dip it into the bowl of warm, soapy water. “This may hurt,” I murmur, gently wrapping my free hand around her ankle, holding her in place.

“Nothing you can do will hurt me more than you already have,” she snaps.

“Please don’t hurt her, Daddy,” Giovanni pleads.

My eyes flicker up to him. “Didn’t I tell you it was time for bed?”

“But I want to stay here with Chlo.”

“Bed,” I grumble.

He blows out a puff of air and mumbles, “Mother trucker,” as he climbs off her lap.

“What did you just say?” I bark.

“Mother trucker.”

“And let me guess …” I grumble, my eyes narrowing as they meet Chloe’s whisky-coloured orbs, a silent understanding passing between us. “You heard Miss Pottymouth say that and thought it would be a brilliant idea to copy her?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Go to bed,” I repeat. “I’ll come tuck you in when I’m finished here.”

“Can I sleep with you and Chlo again?”

“No.”

He puffs out another breath of air as his little shoulders deflate. “That’s not fair.” He takes a few steps before turning back towards us. “You’ll be here in the morning when I wake, won’t you, Chlo?”

“Yes, she will,” I bite, the words sharp and final, leaving no room for argument.

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