Page 158 of Taming Seraphine

“Stay with me?” She tugs at my arm.

“That was the plan.” I slide into bed and gather her in my arms. “Tell me about Bianca.”

Seraphine launches into a description of a middle-aged Italian woman who lived in the mansion’s servants’ wing with her husband. The more she talks, the more obvious it becomes that Bianca was the one who did most of the child rearing.

Her mother, Evangeline, appeared more interested in socializing, shopping sprees than in parenting her two children. And, of course, cheating on Capello with her bodyguard.

“Bianca was so great,” she says with a yawn. “She set up a table in the kitchen and let me watch her cook while I did my homework, and she even let me help prep.”

I rub circles on her back until her eyelids flutter shut. “Would you like to find her when things go quiet?”

Her entire body stiffens. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“If Dad killed Felix for driving me away that night.” She raises her head, her pretty features stricken. “If he hurt Bianca?—”

“It’s alright,” I say. “We don’t have to look them up.”

She relaxes against me, her body still rigid. I continue rubbing slow circles on her back until the tension melts away.

It was naïve of me to think I could hand her over to a therapist to help fix her mind. Seraphine’s story is a complicated tangle of secrets, betrayals, and violence. It needs to be unraveled at her pace.

“You’re safe with me,” I murmur into her hair. “No matter what, I will always protect you and put you first.”

She relaxes fully, and her breathing deepens as she drifts off to sleep. I stare down into her streaky blonde hair and swear to myself that no matter what, I will make her future brighter.

* * *

Half a day later, we’ve checked out of the motel and are sitting around the corner from the home of Mike Ferrante. It’s the basement condo of a five-story brownstone building in a quiet suburb of Beaumont. According to Miko’s intel, his wife is a nurse working two jobs to fund their two children’s college education.

Street lights illuminate a quiet block lined with parked cars. I glance across at Seraphine, who sits alert, her knee bouncing. We’ve already gone through the plan a dozen times, and now she has to wait.

“She’s not leaving,” she says.

“Miko checked the hospital’s schedule,” I mutter. “She’s probably running late.”

Moments later, a blonde woman in scrubs emerges from the steps, carrying a small backpack. She hurries to a silver sedan parked outside and speeds off.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Seraphine bursts out from the car and hurries down the street. I pick up my bag and follow after her with long strides. She’s still impatient, but this is a vast improvement from the last time when she jumped out of a moving car to chase after Pietro Fiori.

By the time I catch up with her, she’s already at the bottom of the basement steps with her finger pressed over the bell.

The door flies open, revealing a balding man with a bulbous nose covered with a red rash spreading down its bridge to his cheekbones. He’s too busy glaring down at Seraphine to notice me descending his steps, and yells, “What the fuck?—”

With well-practiced precision, she stabs Ferrante through the ribs with a syringe, making him stagger backward and drop his gun.

I wince, hoping she didn’t reach his heart. Seraphine needs closure, not just quick kills.

Mike clutches at his chest with one hand and gasps for air. He kicks out at Seraphine, but she side-steps.

“Bitch,” he snarls.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s just a sedative. You’ll be awake in a few minutes and then we’ll talk.”

I step into the condo, close the door behind me, twist the deadlock, and attach the chain. Mrs. Ferrante will be gone for at least eight hours, and we can’t leave anything to chance.

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