Stripped Down

by Chelle Bliss

  He watched me then, but I knew he wasn’t satisfied. After several moments, he nodded, kissing me before he got dressed. He accompanied me downstairs to my car.

  “If you need me…”

  “You’ll be the first person I call,” I lied, hopping in my car when the attendant brought it around from the garage. As I pulled away, I watched Johnny in the rearview, praying he’d get in his car and go home. Hoping like hell he’d let me keep this secret a little while longer.

  The hospital was beige and sterile, like most were, but the children’s ward, at least, had waves of pink, blue, and green balloons painted along the walls leading to the various wings. It was a green wave that led to the nurses station in the ER when I arrived. My hands were still shaking from the trip and the repeated messages sent to me by the camp director.

  She’s fine, Ms. Nicola. I promise. Just a touch of food poisoning, but she was asking for you.

  The woman had only been camp director for a year. She didn’t know Betta. So how in the world would she know if the girl was fine or not?

  The nurse in the blue scrubs scribbled something on a chart while sipping on a bottle of water. She had red hair and a riot of freckles, and when she spotted me, flashed a crooked smile. “Oh, you gotta belong to green eyes in curtain four, right?”

  “Elizabetta Nicola?”

  “Poor thing. It was trout, I think they said. Dang,” she continued, giving me a once-over. “I’ve seen family resemblances, but my God…”

  “Where is she?”

  “Just down there. Curtain four…”

  I followed the direction she indicated with her blue-inked Bic and hurried to the green curtain and the label of FOUR, peeking my head around it to find the tiny form lying on her side, with a scratchy-looking wool blanket covering her long legs.

  She didn’t move when I sat on the bed next to her and immediately started my own examination. “Trout,” I muttered, ready to kill someone. How many times had I told those idiots she didn’t do well with fish? And what was Betta doing eating that mess anyway? Lord, she was pale.

  Paler than I’d ever been. Paler than… Oh God.

  Johnny had been so close tonight. He could have seen any of the pictures in my place. He could have seen her room. We’d almost made love, and when we were done, he’d have had to go to the bathroom to clean up. Betta’s bedroom was next to the hall bathroom.

  What was wrong with me?

  I looked down at her, to the thick bottom lip and the high, arched cheekbones. His features, both of them. My daughter was a Carelli. He’d hate me for never telling him. I’d been with all of them tonight—Cara and Antonia, both my friends. I loved them. They’d never known either. They’d hate me too when they discovered the truth.

  One look at her, that heart-shaped face and those round eyes, my eyes—green like my own, like my mother’s—and I knew without a doubt, I’d made the right decision. Uncle Patrick had convinced me. The Carellis were good people. But they were not innocent. I couldn’t raise a child around that.

  I lowered my head, feeling stupid, utterly ridiculous for what I’d gotten myself into. I’d let Johnny back in. I let him talk me into an arrangement for the sake of my charity, forgetting that protecting my daughter was more important than anything else in the world. Even the organization and the kids I loved so much.

  “Mama?” I heard, jerking my attention down to the bed and my little girl, staring up at me.

  “Hi, baby.” I brushed her face, kissing her cheek. “How do you feel?”

  “It wasn’t my fault.” She was immediately anxious, the words rushing out with her quick exhale. “Connie Matthews told me if you took an ibuprofen, you can eat fish even if you’re allergic.”

  “But you don’t like fish.”

  I kicked off my shoes as Betta moved over, making room for me, something she always did when I went in to check on her after she was supposed to be sleeping. She never was. There was always an excuse—a book and a reason she couldn’t put it away in favor of the sleep she needed. My daughter was better at fast-talking than her father, God help me.

  “I know, but Nathan Miller caught it, and he said he caught it for me. I felt bad for not eating it, even though I told him I didn’t like it and he said he understood, I still, well, I felt bad. And Connie—” here she rolled her eyes, exaggerating the name like she didn’t like how it felt on her tongue “—said I was stupid because Nathan was such a nice boy. And I think Connie likes him, and mainly, I ate it because she called me a coward and I’m no coward.”

  “No, baby, you’re no coward.”

  Wish I could say the same for myself.

  She sat up, looking me over, searching for something I didn’t have with me before she took my hands, squeezing my fingers tight. “You’re not gonna make me come home with you, are you?”

  She was pale, but the quick rush of realization that I might make her come back to the city with me seemed to have put a little color in her cheeks. “You don’t want to come home?”

  “Well, no. We still have three more weeks. And the volleyball tournament is the last week and I’m team captain and I know we’re gonna win.” Her eyes were wide, and she looked a little desperate, still holding my hand like she wanted me to understand how important it was for her to stay at the camp. To a nine-year-old, everything in the world was important at that very moment, no matter what that thing may be. The next moment, the next second, would bring the next most important thing. But for now, Betta seemed focused on volleyball and winning.

  “Is Connie on the other team?” I asked, guessing her competitive streak had been stoked by more than a game.

  “She might be. But that’s not why. We’ve been practicing all summer.”

  Relief filled me. It seemed far too early for silly things like jealous girls and boys with crushes to be taking up her attention. And by how easily Betta seemed to switch her focus, my worry ebbed. I nestled closer to her, lying on my side so we were face-to-face on the hospital bed. “Okay, but only if you promise not to do stupid things like eat fish just to impress boys or because silly girls call you a coward.”

  Those big green eyes softened. The familiar thick lips curled into a smile as she lifted her small finger to me for a shake. “Pinkie promise.”

  “Good.” I took the proffered promise and her pinkie before I tugged up the blanket and moved it over her shoulder. “Now, rest. I’ll stay with you and then drive you back in the morning.”

  On the other side of the curtain, I heard the redheaded nurse mumbling something about a shift change, then her instruction to whom I guessed was a new nurse about Betta’s condition. When the woman mentioned, “waiting on the doctor to release her,” I relaxed, figuring I’d get more details after my daughter had finally gotten some sleep.

  “Mama?” I heard, surprised she hadn’t dozed off yet.

  “Yes, baby?”

  “You okay?” I looked down, eyebrows bunched together when Betta frowned at me. “You look sad.”

  What could I say to that? There wasn’t much she’d understand. I’d never mentioned Johnny to her. She’d asked once who her father was, and after Uncle Pat’s face had turned four shades of purple, I’d sent him home, promising him I wouldn’t tell the girl anything about her father’s true identity. I’d made up a small lie about a boy I’d once known, a boy who wasn’t ready to be a father.

  Does he know about me? she’d asked.

  Any man worth his salt would burn down the world to be your father, vita mia.

  It was a non-answer she probably never understood, but she never pushed. I suspected Uncle Pat told her something about a boy who was no good. Likely something about never asking me again for fear of breaking my heart. When she was older, I vowed to explain everything. But, nine? No, I told myself, my heart aching as she watched me, concern making her eyes glisten. Nine was just too young.

  “I was just worried about my polpetta,” I teased, knowing she hated the nickname.

  Betta’
s smile was wide, sweet, but it didn’t linger on her mouth. She nestled into her pillow, holding my hand against her chest and stifled a yawn. “Don’t worry so much, Mama,” she said, beginning to doze off. “Everything will be okay. You gotta have faith.”

  But the only faith I had was stored up in this little girl, and I worried that protecting her wouldn’t be an easy job if Johnny discovered who she was.

  8

  Sammy

  My uncle had never quite understood why I refused to marry. Even when I cried against his shoulder, five months gone with a baby and the ink from Johnny Carelli’s six-figure apology check long dry, I still wouldn’t hear anything about being married off to whatever poor idiot Uncle Pat convinced to have me.

  “The baby will be a bastard, my love,” he’d said, patting my head. His voice soft as though the words he spoke didn’t sting worse than Johnny swearing he’d never loved me. “It’s best you hear the truth.”

  I hadn’t cared about his truth. “Then it will be my bastard.” My uncle could only stare at me when I sat up, my face flushed and wet, my breaths uneven as the life fluttered inside me. “Whoever this baby will be, it will be mine, and maybe one day, when Johnny grows up, when he sees…”

  “No.” Uncle Pat had always been adamant about that point. There was never any discussion. “You can never tell him. Not any of them.” He held my arm, his fingers tightening as he spoke. “My love, whatever else you do, understand this—that family is dangerous. That boy, he is dangerous. Your child will already suffer the indignities of being without a father since you refuse to marry. Better that it have no father at all than one who will put it in danger. An association with the Carellis comes with more trouble than you know.”

  “But you and Mr. Carelli…”

  “I am a servant of the Lord. I am protected. But you, you are carrying one of their own. If they knew, what do you think they would say? A family so protective of their own blood? So determined to pass along that name? Worse than that, what would their enemies do should they discover there is an infant and a young mother who can be bargained with?” Uncle Pat leaned back, removing his wire-rimmed glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “I know you’ve convinced yourself that you love that fool boy, but, Samantha, my sweet niece, this cannot be. For the safety of your unborn child, stay away from him and never tell him about the baby.” He sighed, staring at me like he knew how harsh he sounded but couldn’t keep the words from leaving his mouth. “One day, you’ll see. One day, you’ll understand that, for this baby, you’ll gladly break that boy’s heart. You’ll break your own if it means keeping it safe.”

  My uncle hated Johnny. That was no secret. When he’d discovered us, naked in my room four months before, I’d thought he might kill Johnny. I’d never seen Uncle Pat move that quickly or scream that loud. Until he found me throwing up in my bathroom a month later and brought me in to see Dr. Wilson.

  “He’s ruined you,” Uncle Pat promised me.

  I hadn’t understood how true that was. Even later, at five months pregnant, I still didn’t appreciate it. I wanted to make my uncle see reason. Despite how much heartache Johnny had already caused me, telling me he didn’t love me, paying off my uncle to keep him from telling his father what had happened between us, I still believed there was a chance. Someday, somehow, we’d come back to each other.

  “He’ll hate you,” my uncle said when I took a breath, readying myself to tell him that the day would come for Johnny and me.

  I had faith.

  My uncle’s once-handsome face was drawn, and he’d seemed to age five years in those five months. Mainly, I thought, because I’d refused to marry anyone or give my baby away. The guilt was often replaced with irritation when Uncle Pat said awful things about Johnny.

  Like he did just then. “I promise you, Samantha. If you tell him you are pregnant after he’s promised that he never loved you, his father will force him to marry you. He will obey, but he will resent you. He will always resent you and your child for trapping him. Johnny Carelli is a dutiful son, but he will never be a loyal husband.”

  I hated my uncle that day.

  I hated the truth I knew lingered in his words.

  I hated that he knew Johnny better than I did.

  I moved around my apartment now, staring at more flowers he’d sent me, this time, orchids. They had been waiting for me in the lobby when I returned from Ellenville this morning, signed only with “Hope everything is OK. Let’s finish what we started tonight. Love, J.” And I realized not a lot had changed.

  Johnny was still dangerous. With his father gone, that was truer now than ever before. He wasn’t some mafia don, as far as I knew, but it wasn’t like the Carellis walked the straight and narrow. Cara and Kiel had been shot at last year right in front of her family’s museum, and their friend Dale had taken a bullet while they’d hidden in the mountains outside of Seattle because of something Antonia said had to do with “family business,” whatever the hell that was.

  I couldn’t bring my daughter around that.

  Besides, once Johnny knew the truth, he’d hate me, just like Uncle Pat promised. He’d never understand why I wanted to keep Betta from him for all these years.

  The orchids were purple, my favorite color, something I supposed Johnny remembered me telling him when we were kids. The flowers were delicate but luxurious, something Johnny would understand needed looking after. He counted on me to do the job.

  I suppose he counted on me to bend for him too.

  To say yes to forgiving him.

  To say yes to loving him again.

  The bookcase at the back of the room was filled with some of my favorite first editions that I had collected. Some were twentieth-century authors, some older, but among all those books were sporadic frames with pictures of Betta and me over the years. My favorite was of her by herself, her face red and splotchy, her hair pulled back as she spiked the ball in her first volleyball tournament last summer. I’d made it to that camp tournament. She’d performed so well, one of the counselors mentioned an all-girls school in New Haven that Betta would likely flourish at. They had a volleyball team, and I could see her on the weekends. The drive was only a couple hours. It would keep her from Johnny if he wouldn’t let me go, or, worse, if he found out what I’d been keeping from him all these years.

  I picked up the picture, rubbing my thumb across my daughter’s face. I understood the warning my uncle had given me all those years ago. For her, I’d do anything—destroy any shreds of happiness I might have with Johnny if it meant keeping her out of danger. Even if that danger was from her own blood.

  The phone rang twice after I selected the number, and with each ring, my chest tightened. I didn’t want to make this call. I never wanted to ask the man for anything or to make a confession like this again. But for Betta… Anything for my daughter.

  His voice was low, the tone whiskey-rough, and I felt an odd sense of relief just hearing it.

  “Uncle Pat?” I said, willing my pulse to slow.

  “Sweetheart, is everything okay? How is Betta feeling?”

  “She’s fine. Just some bad trout.” I swallowed down the thick knot of worry that had lodged itself in my throat. I wasn’t eager to hear the screaming that was about to come my way. “Listen, Uncle Pat, I need a favor. A big one.”

  He’d never offered money before because I’d never been this desperate. That was my inheritance, I knew as much, something left to him from his sister, my mother, that my uncle always said would make me a wealthy woman after he died. I’d never questioned him. He was a financial whiz, had grown that nest egg considerably the past thirty years. I trusted him implicitly. But now, I needed his help.

  “All right.” He paused, and I caught the sound of his leather chair coming through the receiver as he moved. “What can I help you with?”

  Best to do it quickly. “I need money, lots of it. To buy out Johnny Carelli.”

  9

  Johnny

  The numbers
above the elevator took an eternity to rise. Eighty-eight floors and it felt like it took forever for the car to climb. My palms sweated as I watched the ascent, and I couldn’t keep myself from messing with the money clip in my pocket. It was a stupid, nervous habit I’d never bothered to lose, but hell, I was an anxious guy.

  Except for the call telling me she was stopping by to see me, Sammy hadn’t responded to any of my calls or texts since she’d left last night, though I knew she made it home. I’d slipped her day guard a hundred to let me know when she came in and to pick up the orchid I’d sent then shoot me a text to confirm. It was a little sneaky, paying off some guy in her building, but it was damn hard not checking up on her when everything in me told me to make sure she was safe. You couldn’t live the life I did and not take precautions, especially with the people you cared about.

  And fuck, did I care about Sammy. That much was obvious to me.

  Three more floors and my guts felt like melted iron was twisting around them.

  Nadine eyed me, but she kept her opinions to herself, typing steadily on her tablet as I rubbed the money clip, top to bottom, then dropped it when the bell above the elevator dinged and the doors opened.

  Christ, she was beautiful. Sammy was put together like a Chanel ad in a sleeveless black dress with tight pleats at the waist, showing off her defined biceps, olive complexion, and tiny waist. She wore minimal makeup but smelled, as always, delicious, and she let me take her hand to pull her in for a kiss on the cheek, but nothing more, once she stepped off the elevator.