Page 37 of Broken Trust

“Even better than the critic's hands?”

“Oh, by a mile.”

I turn around in her arms, and that's when the whole night comes pouring out of me, the applause and the silence and Mamma’s face and the sting of my sister's palm. I cry great big ugly sobs that rattle me right down to my toes, and Nella just holds on and lets me.

When I finally pull back, I catch my reflection in the dark window by the door. My hair's falling out of its knot, my eyes are swollen, and there's a bright red mark on my cheek the same shape as the one I left on hers. For one awful second, it isn't my face looking back at me at all. It's Mia's.

I turn away from the glass and sniff hard.

“Could she really do it?” I ask. “Take half the restaurant?”

“First thing tomorrow, we're calling Ferri.” Nella dabs at my face with the corner of her sleeve. “If she's got a case, we'll fight her. And if we lose, we'll burn the place down and collect the insurance.”

“Nella.”

“I'm kidding.” She kisses my forehead, right where she left that lipstick mark hours ago. “Mostly. Now come on, let's get some ice on that face before it matches the tablecloths.”

21

DANTE

Rosa's been screaming since six, and by nine I'm pretty sure the whole building hates me.

Two teeth are coming through at once, her cheeks are red and hot, and nothing I do makes any difference. I've tried the frozen teething ring, the cold washcloth, the drops the pharmacist sold me that cost more than dinner. I've walked her up and down this one room so many times I could do it blindfolded, eleven steps from the crib to the window and back again, bouncing and humming and begging her in a whisper to just close her eyes for me.

Around half past nine she finally gives up, more out of exhaustion than anything I did. She falls asleep slumped on my shoulder mid-sob, her fist knotted in my collar, her breath still hitching. I lower her into the crib so slowly my back screams, and then I stand over her holding perfectly still, waiting for those eyes to snap open again.

They don't. Thank God.

I slide down onto the floor with my back against the wall and look at the mess I call a life. There's a basket of laundry I washed two days ago and still haven't folded, and a sink full of bottles. On the counter, weighted down with a jar of baby food, there's the stack of bills I've been pretending isn't there. Carlo's money went faster than either of us expected. Rent swallowed most of it, the electric bill ate the rest, and then Rosa got an ear infection and the pediatrician wanted cash up front. Tomorrow I'll spend the last twenty euros in my wallet on another tin of formula, and after that I don't know.

I've spent my adult life telling myself I could handle anything. Turns out I'd been handing it all to Gia and taking the credit.

I'm just working up the energy to stand and tackle the bottles when someone knocks. It's soft, only two taps, as if whoever it is knows there's a sleeping baby inside.

I figure it's the old woman from downstairs coming to complain about the screaming again, so I drag myself up, rake a hand over my face, and open the door ready to apologize.

It's Gia.

For a second I think I've dozed off down there and I'm dreaming of her. She's standing on the dim landing in faded jeans and a soft blue sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose knot with a few strands falling around her face, holding the diaper bag I left in her restaurant two months ago. She looks tired and lovely and like the only thing I've wanted since I was sixteen years old.

“Your ma told me where you live.”

She explains, but I’d already guessed that must have been the case. Nella knows where I live, but I couldn’t imagine her giving that information to Gia, so the only other person would be Ma.

Then she tips her head into the light from the doorway, and I see her cheek.

There's a bruise along the bone under her left eye, faded now to yellow and violet, and it's the unmistakable shape of fingers.

Everything in me goes hot and cold at once.

I close the door behind her as she slips in.

“Who did that?” My voice comes out low and rough. “Gia, who the hell hit you?”

“It's nothing.”

“Don't. Somebody put their hand on you.”