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“Please.”
She gave me a cookie and I accepted it. It was surprisingly soft and it tasted delicious.
“Do you want one for your doggy?”
“No, dogs can’t have sugar. It makes them sick.”
“Really? Once, I ate too much chocolate cake and I was sick too.”
God help me, I loved this child. She was so pure and cheerful, looking at her made me forget how hollow my life was. She was smart and beautiful. I used to imagine my kids would be like that, but I gave up on the idea a long time ago.
“Well, don’t do that again. What else do you have in there? The cookie was delicious.”
“Here.” She put in my hand a little cupcake with a pale green icing in my hand. “If you like it, I’ll give you more.”
When I bit into the cupcake, I almost spit it out right away. Not because it was bad, but because it tasted like everything I’ve ever loved. Saffron. The sweet and earthy flavor invaded my tastebuds, almost like I bit into a flower dipped in honey. There was a faint hint of lemon and pistachio from the frosting. I would recognize that taste anywhere. There was just one person that could make that.
“Mama calls them love bites because they’re in bite size.”
I fixed the remaining muffin with my eyes, trying to find out its secrets. Love bites. Persian love cake. I’ve eaten these before.
My body temperature went up and my heart started beating in my stomach. The saffron, the muffin, the little girl. All the information was coming together in a picture that was too much to handle.
No, it was just wishful thinking. Someone else had to have this recipe, it wasn’t like Salvatrice invented it. This was just one of the millionth moments in the last six years when I thought I saw her at a corner of the street or felt like she was around. I just had to fight through it.
But the faint taste of saffron lingering on my lips didn’t let me find my peace. What if this time it was true? What if when she left me, Salvatrice went halfway around the world? What did this mean? She had a child? Was she here with someone, living her life with another man?
I’m going to kill him.
I felt the Ruger Blackhawk revolver that I always carried poking me in the back, from where I hid it under my shirt. Half of my brain was telling me that I was looking for a phantom that just wasn’t there, and the other half wanted to see the blood drained from the sucker she was shaking up with while I spent every minute waiting for her to come back.
“Sir, are you alright?” The little voice called for me.
“Hmm? Yes. What’s your name, young lady?”
“Romina.” She said with a smile. “Mama calls me Remy.”
Remy.
Another arrow went clean through my body.
“Why do you call me Remy, amore?”
“Roman is too long and there’s no other way to shorten your stupid name.” Salvatrice kept her face straight, but smiled with her eyes. There was light dancing in them.
“I don’t know if I like it.”
“Ah, you don’t?” She raised from her chair and came to sit in my lap. “You’re the love of my life, Remy. You make me so happy, Remy. You’re amazing in bed, Remy. How do you like it now?”
Damn, this woman had me in her palm.
“I’m starting to dig it.”
“How old are you… Romina?”
“Five years and six months. It’s the perfect time to start ballet.”
Right, that’s why she was in the street selling sweets to strangers.
