Page 81 of Tears Like Acid

“What about the local school?”

He sips his wine, not looking at me.

“Surely the principal will understand?” I continue. “If you explain the situation, won’t he accept a late enrollment? Sophie is a bright little girl. She’ll catch up quickly.”

“The school year finishes in June. There are only four months left.”

“Then let her start officially with the new school year. What prevents you from putting her in school in the meantime? She’s been so isolated with no good role models. Being in an environment with other children of her age will do her good.”

He studies me from under his lashes. “Not if they make fun of her or bully her.”

“Why would they do that?”

He clenches his jaw. “Because of whom she is and where she comes from.”

I remember Isaac and the teasing. “I don’t want that for her either, but you have to try. Integration is important. Bullying and teasing can always be addressed.”

“I agree that she’ll have to learn how to handle those things. Bullying happens even between adults.”

“But?”

He puts his glass on the table. “A school in a different city may be a better solution.”

I gape at him. “In a different city? You want to send her away?”

“For her own good.”

“For her own good?” I whisper-exclaim. “She’s only just connected with you, her only family besides her brothers and great-grandfather, maybe the first person in her close circle who she perceives as being reliable. You can’t send her away now.”

“She’ll go back to boarding school. A different one. She’ll be well cared for.”

“No doubt,” I say, slamming my glass down on the counter. “She’ll be clothed and fed and educated.”

“Exactly,” he bites out.

“What about stability and affection and love?”

“There’s stability in routine. She’ll have that at a hostel. And she’ll be at my house on the weekends.”

“You can’t do it.” I ball my hands into fists. “That little girl has suffered more than enough in her short life. What she needs is a family she can depend on, not a tutor in some fancy girls’ school miles away from everything that’s familiar to her.”

Advancing on me, he asks, “Are you a child psychologist now?”

“No,” I say with thin lips. “But maybe you should consult one. You may be shocked to find that a psychologist may agree.”

“Sophie is not your problem and not your responsibility,” he says, animosity sparking in his eyes as he cups my nape. The touch isn’t a caress. It’s a dominant grip meant to intimidate. “She’s my niece, and I’ll decide what’s best for her.”

“I don’t mean to interfere, but—”

His voice hardens. “Then don’t.”

“Mr. Russo, you have to—”

“Stop fucking calling me that,” he says, giving me a shake.

“Then what am I supposed to call you, seeing that your name is off limits?”

Anger glimmers in his eyes. “You want to say it? Go ahead. Say my name.” When I only clamp my lips together, he shakes me harder. “Say it, damn you.”

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