Page 99 of Ruthless Consequences

“Which one?” I joked, handing her over.

He kept her head cradled while he smiled at her. She looked up at him with big brown eyes. Even though it was March, I lifted the blanket I’d swaddled her in, trying to cover her back. Her head full of soft brown hair stuck out from underneath her little crocheted hat. Michele kissed her forehead and started taking her around, showing her off, introducing her as the future of Valentino’s.

Minnie. Matilde. Gabriella. Carine.

Our gang of girls, as Ava liked to call them. Minnie stood next to Sonny, holding his hand, trying to pull him in the direction of two puppies on leashes. The woman he’d been seeing, someone he met in the apartment complex, kept up, a smile on her kind face. Matilde was with Aren, watching with a serious face as he showed her a fava bean, telling her something about it. Gabriella—she was always where her father was. I needed to grab her. I told him I’d only be five minutes. She’d cried to stay.

I shook hands and made small, pleasant talk as I weaved through the crowd and to the side of the building. I looked down the stairs, into the area where the bread was baked, all the fires going, making the darkness glow. I made my way halfway down but didn’t fully enter.

Gabriella sat on a sack of flour next to Brio as he constantly shoved bread in and out of the oven, setting it on racks that seemed like they were forever rotating. Workers bagged up the loaves, handing them to other workers to take up top. Gabriella’s little legs dangled, and she was singing to him, flour on her hands and face. For a child of her age, she could sit like that for hours. Still, Brio didn’t like her around the ovens. Matilde didn’t like to be around them. She liked the inside of the bakery, where all the sweets were.

My husband turned and caught me watching them. I smiled at him, and his return grin came slow, widening into a smile that still made the blood rush through my veins. His hair was slicked back with sweat—it coated his tan skin, making it glisten in the glow of the fires. He wore a white tank top, gold cross around his neck, and black slacks, giving a young Marlon Brando a run for his money. His muscles were well defined. They flexed with every move he made. Even though the air was thick with the scent of baking bread, I could smell his cologne through it.

Our eyes connected, and I didn’t need to close mine to go back in time to the day after we left New York City. We made our home base in Florida, where Matilde was born, but we traveled nonstop for four years. Even with two kids under two. Minnie was always such a big help. She loved babies as much as she loved animals. We were always together. It was exactly what she needed to grow. And exploring the world did her so much good.

We flew. We took short and long road trips. We climbed mountains. We swam in exotic seas. We ate and drank. We laughed and we loved. We lived.

We were free.

When we decided to come back to New York, I became pregnant with Carine, and being home felt…good. It felt right. And we couldn’t wait to take the girls back to Coney Island. All four of them, together. I wanted to get a picture of them on the teacup ride.

My smile grew even wider. Brio’s eyes narrowed, and he called for another guy to man the oven he was on. He took Gabriella by the hand, helping her off the bag, and headed toward me. We met on the steps, half in the darkness, half touched by light. We were in the shadows. Standing where we’d always kept our love safe. Tucked away so the rest of the world couldn’t touch it.

He pressed his lips against mine. His skin was salty, and I licked my lips, placing my hands on his shoulders.

“You look sohot,” I said.

He laughed. “I am fu—hot.” He shrugged. “But it feels good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But don’t tell Michele.”

I laughed again. “I think he already knows. He’s telling everyone the future of Valentino’s belongs to his girls. Front of the house will be Minnie’s. Matilde will deal with the baking—sweets, stuff like that. Carine will take care of the books. And…”

We both looked down at Gabriella, who hummed while she watched the ovens with fascination.

“She’ll be singing while she works, next to her old man. Come on.” He slid his free hand over my hip, to my waist, then took my hand in his.

He led me outside into the bright sun of the day. A cool wind blew and he sighed, like he was airing out. Customers who knew him stopped and talked to him, shaking his hand, telling him how good it was to see him.

They didn’t just mean back in New York. I could tell the people who’d watched him grow up, who’d grown up supporting the bakery, wanted him to take over when Michele couldn’t work anymore. I could see both years from now—Michele grumbling while he still told Brio how to do it. They were still oil and water, but oil and water who understood each other. They sort of met in the middle.

That was where we met Michele, in the middle of the street. We all stood next to the line and greeted customers until the day faded and night took its place. The girls were all asleep, except for Minnie, who rested her head against Sonny’s shoulder as we took our spot at the piano in the parlor.

My husband’s fingers caressed the keys before my voice tangled with his beautiful melody. The end of the song came, and my voice drifted off as the music faded.

“You and me,” he said.

“Light and dark,” I whispered.

He grinned. “Note and verse.”

“Together. Forever. ”

“Forever isn’t long enough with you.” He looked down, concentrating, and when he captured a melody that spoke to me, I gave it the lyrics of my heart. We created something we’d teach our girls, something that would stand the test of time.

Our love song.

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