1: In Which She Sates His Hunger

********************************

“You have to go to the police, Dani,” said Adam.

“But after we beat the accent out of him,” Charlie added menacingly, giving me the look he saved for his special I’m-your-twin-so-you-best-listen-to-me moments.

I was sitting at our father’s chipped wooden kitchen table, a cup of black coffee warming my hands and an untouched slice of Marmite-slathered toast before me. I needed the coffee more than my brothers could ever know. It took everything in my power to keep from succumbing to sleep and dreaming about my Mickey growing up and becoming a bloody talented drug dealer.

God forbid, I thought morosely, gingerly taking another sip of the coffee.

“Well?” Adam pressed, folding his arms across his chest as he moved to stand in front of the sink beside his younger brother. In a frayed, grey Crowing Uni rugby T-shirt and black shorts decorated with tiny Tweety and Sylvester images, he hardly looked like a dangerous character. Carlo Donafrio would pummel him to a pulp before he could even lift an arm to swing a punch.

“I’m not going to the police and you’re not beating the...the accent out of Donafrio,” I said slowly.

Charlie visibly deflated. “Why not?”

“Because,” I said, remembering Carlo’s curt explanation of what had transpired three years ago, “he promised to never come near me or Mickey again.”

Adam, who was two years older than Charlie and me, rolled his eyes. “Right – and the word of a known crook should be taken as the gospel.”

“The fact that you can’t even sue that fúcking joke of a clinic –” Charlie began, but I cut him off.

“Can we please not talk about this?” I said, letting out an exasperated sigh. “And don’t tell Dad. Or Mum. About anything.”

“Don’t tell Dad what?” My father’s voice came from behind me as he sauntered into the room, the morning paper in hand. “Morning, sweetheart,” he said, pecking the top of my head. He didn’t sound especially startled to find all three of his grown-up children in his kitchen on a balmy Saturday morning. Adam and Charlie practically still lived at home with him. “When did you get here?” he added, pulling open the refrigerator.

Did I really want to explain to him that I’d crept in last night with Mickey fast asleep in my arms? That I felt safer in my old bedroom? That I wanted my brothers around me because they were free security?

“Just a little while ago,” I lied, daring my brothers to say otherwise. They didn’t.

“Where’s my grandson?”

“Upstairs.”

“Everything all right?” Dad was looking at me, a glass of orange juice in hand. His rheumy blue eyes seemed to be searching mine. It wasn’t fair that my father could tell when I was lying just by glancing at me.

“Dad, got a minute?” said Adam, springing into action. “It’s about my Merc.”

Just like that, I lost our father’s attention. His eyes swivelled to my big brother, excitement emanating from his tall form. Car talk was the closest thing to Disneyland for Dad. Top Gear was like a child’s cartoon to him, so it was no wonder that he instantly launched into a heated interrogation about Adam’s Mercedes SLK with gusto. That gave me enough time to slink out of the kitchen – except that Charlie followed me upstairs.

“How a guy like that was allowed to sell his jizz, I’ll never know,” he said in a low voice so our father wouldn’t hear. My parents were under the impression that Mickey was the product of a one-night stand. “What’s next? Slenderman adopting?”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s a fictional character. And I’d rather not talk about this, thank you very much.”

“You need to talk about this, Dani. This guy barged into your house. This guy wants something and if you’re too dense to see it, I’ll say it for you.”

Charlie was cute when he pretended he was older. Sometimes, I believed it, especially now, when I stared at his intense baby blues and the stubborn jut of his jaw. He was almost a foot taller than me despite being a runt as a child. Being fraternal twins, most people had simply assumed that I was older than him by a few years.

“What do you think he wants?” I asked, genuinely curious. Charlie’s mind worked differently to other people, which might’ve been the result of multiple head trauma on his motorcycle. As a child, he hadn’t believed the stork-and-baby story our father had half-heartedly told us. Instead, he’d conjured up the notion that women swallowed baby seeds and the end result was a baby to call their own.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Charlie, glancing at the mahogany cot he’d built with Adam. Mickey was stirring inside. “Don’t you watch mob movies? He wants an heir.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said, scooping up my son and burying my face in his mop of thick, dark curls.

“Think about it.” He began to pace my bedroom. “He shows up out of nowhere and suddenly wants to see if someone bought his cream and if said person had a son, right? Well, either he’s dying of a fatal disease and wants an heir to continue his legacy of crime and mayhem, or his gran’s on his case.”

“If you must know, it was all a misunderstanding,” I said sharply.

“What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath. “Three years ago, he wasn’t much of a bad guy. He wasn’t bad.” I met Charlie’s disbelieving stare. “Anyway, his sister-in-law – who’d lost her husband, by the way – wanted a child so badly. She told Carlo that he was the next best thing to her late husband, so after she battled to persuade him, he finally –”

“Is there a point to this story, or do you enjoy romanticising this man?”

I shot him a dirty look. “He finally visited the sperm bank and everything was going okay until she changed her mind and said it would be like dishonouring his brother.” I set Mickey back in his cot and he promptly grabbed a rattle in his fat hands. “Instead of discarding his sperm, the clinic just...kept it. And then I came along and his picture was there and...well, here’s Mickey.”

“You’re kidding me.” Charlie ran a hand through his dirt-blonde hair. “Danielle,” he said, using my full name, “you have to stay away from him, mistake or no. The guy’s dangerous.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Adam appeared in the doorway. “You’ve always done whatever the hell you please, Danielle, and most of your decisions are a joke.”

“What are you trying to say?” I said through clenched teeth, folding my arms across my chest.

They stood together, towering over me. “That you’re so small and this world is so big.”

“And now you’re both ganging up on me. Thank you,” I muttered.

They were both utterly wrong. Carlo Donafrio wasn’t going to come near someone like me. Besides, I wouldn’t let him.

***

At twenty-eight, I certainly should’ve been considering settling down, but after witnessing what had happened between my parents, that was reason enough to stay away from wedding aisles and tulle gowns and anything to do with what was a different kind of life sentence.

It was this thought that sprang to mind when Charlie’s ex-girlfriend – my somewhat best friend – Libby Wilson showed up at my café and asked me to be her maid-of-honour.

“I know things have been awkward between us after Charlie and I broke up but really, Dee, it would mean the world to me if you’d agree,” she said over the din in the café, absently picking up a chocolate-glazed slice of cake that was on display on the counter and dipping a finger in the icing.

“Awkward?” I said sarcastically. “You only dumped him on his birthday. Nothing awkward about that.”

Libby sighed, putting her finger to her mouth. “Oh yes, because Charlie’s been so heartbroken. In fact, so heartbroken that he’s had a string of girlfriends since.”

“That’s Charlie we’re talking about,” I said, smiling despite myself. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” However, I did know my brother well enough to know that his sleeping around was his way of coping with being dumped by the love of his life – not that he’d ever say that aloud.

Libby gave me a wry smile, her eyes dancing. “So I take it that’s a yes? You’ll show up at that lovely boutique on Stone this weekend? I’m thinking violet gowns.”

I nodded. “Do you have a cake?”

She giggled. “I’ve got two months to decide that...but I’d like you to design it. Sponge.”

“Naturally,” I told her. And she sauntered out, the bell clinging to note her exit.

I breathed a sigh of relief after she’d left. Libby and I weren’t exactly estranged but we rarely saw each other, despite pretending to be sisters since pre-school, pigtails and Play-Doh. Of course, I knew that Charlie had something to do with it. Out of solidarity, I was sticking by him.

Oh well.

If Lib thought a shotgun marriage with a guy named Zed was what she needed, who was I to hold that against her?

“Dani?” Megan popped up beside me and I turned my attention to her. “I just got a call...”

“What is it?” I snapped. Megan had the annoying habit of dragging things out.

“You know your pastiera? I just got a huge order for it.”

“Well, that’s great news,” I exclaimed, all the while wondering how huge she meant when she said ‘huge’. Pastiera tasted better when it was made days before consumption. “Just let me know who, when and where.”

Megan swallowed. “Mia Donafrio’s having a birthday party next weekend.”

Mia Donafrio.

How was it that in the short space of roughly two weeks, ‘Donafrio’ was becoming a household name? Was there no end to my misfortune? Was it a coincidence that Carlo’s sister-in-law just happened to order a traditional Italian cake that could’ve been made by the many traditional Italian pastry shops in my vicinity?

No.

There was no such thing as a coincidence.

This sentiment was emphasised by the sound of the door dinging as it was pushed open, and Carlo Donafrio himself stepped inside. Megan gave me a sideways glance, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.

Is he going to hold us at gunpoint?

She didn’t have to say it aloud.

“May I help you?” I said as professionally as I could, ignoring the sudden lull in conversation at the few occupied tables at the front.

It didn’t help that Donafrio looked like he had murder in his eyes, or that he’d appeared in the paper over the weekend and was accused of the kidnapping and torture of an Irish club owner, or that a man who had ‘BODYGUARD’ stamped across his forehead was standing at the door as conspicuous as a tsunami.

Or all of the above.

Either way, I wasn’t about to be intimidated, especially under his unblinking stare. “May I help you?” I repeated, and Megan slithered away.

“Clarke’s,” he intoned, finally taking his eyes off me and surveying my coffee shop. “Very quaint.”

By ‘quaint’, he probably meant the red-and-white checked colour scheme. Someone had once said that it made the café seem like a little piece of ‘gran’s kitchen’. I took that as a compliment.

“Have you come here as a health inspector?” I couldn’t help my sarcastic tone.

“Not at all,” he replied seriously. “I require a slice of your pastiera napoletana. I’m told that it’s the real deal.”

“Why me?” I blurted out. I was mortified when a blush enflamed my cheeks when he gave me a slow smile. I was positive that he usually beamed like that when he considered how many ways he could kill a person.

“Because you are the best, cara. Do you doubt that your skills are no match for a Neapolitan’s tastebuds?”

“I didn’t know you were from Naples.” And why should you, Dani? The less you know about this man, the better. “Not that I care. I mean, I have work to do. One slice of cake?”

He nodded. “And I would like to talk to you.”

“About?” I snapped.

“About the boy.”

Charlie’s words reverberated in my ear: He wants an heir.

But that was silly, wasn’t it? Perhaps he was going to sue the fertility clinic for not discarding his deposit. Perhaps he simply needed to inform me. Why not over a slice of cake I’d slaved to make?

“He has a name,” I found myself saying. “I don’t appreciate your referring to him as if he’s an arbitrary creature.”

“Mickey,” he said, his bottom lip curling in distaste. “Are you a fan of the mouse?”

I didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or serious, so I replied through clenched teeth, “It’s short for Michael, after my father. Not that that’s any of your business.”

“Au contraire, Danielle Clarke. It is my business,” he snarled, making me take a step back.

No, I thought. You will not take my baby away from me! You have no right to!

“But...but you said –”

“What I said and what I am saying have no relation. Live in the present. There are matters we must discuss.” With that, he turned on his heel and claimed an empty table by the windows. He looked completely out of place in his suit and the square table was dwarfed by his size. Mumbling to myself, I went to the glass chest of cakes and cut a large slice of pastiera and set it on a plate, bringing it to Carlo myself.

I reluctantly took the seat opposite him, instantly regretting my choice of purchasing cute, dinky tables. Our legs instantly brushed under the table and, as discreetly as I could, I pulled back and all but squished them under my chair.

“Grazie,” he said quietly.

“What is it?” I muttered, settling my eyes somewhere past his shoulder.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

I did, glaring at him. “I wasn’t aware that I was back in primary school, Headmaster.”

“When you behave half your age, Ms. Clarke, control is warranted.” He dug his fork into the cake. As if in a trance, I watched him put it to his mouth. His lips were full, a faint pink; rough stubble dusting the skin above his top lip and the jut of his jaw.

I bet those lips are just as dangerous as the man that uses them.

Horrified, I looked away.

“Delizioso,” Carlo murmured, putting the fork down. His eyes had closed. “My nonna would make this every Easter. The ricotta she used was the most delectable.” His eyes flew open again. “This comes very close to my grandmother’s.”

I leaned forward. “Is she still alive?”

A cloud passed over his face. “No, but she lived to be ninety-seven.” The poker face returned. “Wouldn’t you call that amazing?”

“She certainly honoured her parents,” I mused, remembering how my grandmother had told my brothers and me as children to ‘honour thy parents so you may live a long and happy life’. She’d passed away the year after, still so young. Charlie’s response to the news was: “She must’ve been a nightmare to our great-grandparents.”

“Are you religious?” Carlo questioned, taking another forkful of cake.

“I believe in God,” I replied guardedly. “Are you?”

“I have yet to see the point of religion.” His eyes met mine.

If someone had told me that I would find myself discussing religion with Carlo Donafrio, suspected killer-slash-mobster-slash-drug dealer and definite billionaire, in my coffee shop with our knees touching, I would’ve laughed in that person’s face and suggested a mental facility to them.

Yet here we were.

“I...I have to...check the stock,” I said gently, unable to tear my eyes from his.

“Ms. Clarke, it would be greatly appreciated if you could bring...Michael to my office whenever you are free, preferably this week.” This was his idea of cutting to the chase.

“To your office?” I hissed. “Have you completely lost the plot? Why would I do that?”

It was Carlo’s turn to lean forward. “Because I know where you live,” he intoned in a low voice.

A shiver crawled down my spine. “Why are you doing this?”

“We are both the victims of the Healey Group’s incompetence,” he said gruffly. “My lawyers are in the process of issuing summons. Please – don’t look like a rabbit in the headlights – you won’t have to appear in court, unless it is absolutely necessary. I’m not the type to get taken for a ride, Ms. Clarke.”

I swallowed. “And how will you explain finding me in the first place? That your cousin simply happened to stumble upon confidential information?”

“If I had known that helping a family member out would have resulted in such a ridiculous mistake, I would never have even considered it.” His voice was like shards of glass. “You must understand where I’m coming from.”

“My son,” I spat, “is not a mistake. You are the mistake. Men like you should be neutered.” I was used to people thinking awful things about my son, a three-year-old who could barely walk, barely string two words together. Pitying me. Pitying him. Mistake.

Carlo's eyes became slits. “Don’t insult my intelligence with childish jibes.”

“How dare you call my son a mistake? I didn’t ask for your sperm to be put inside me!”

The silence that followed made the hair stand on my neck. I turned in my seat to find every eye in the room on us. I was done being embarrassed.

“What?” I yelled. “Why don’t you lot drink your fúcking tea and mind your own business?” I turned back to face the man before me, a scowl on my face. “What?” He had the semblance of a leer on his face.

“Something you said,” he murmured. “You must have seen something you liked in my picture, cara, so in essence, you wanted me.”

My mouth went dry, even as I felt the flutter in my belly. “Leave. Leave and never come back.”

“Certainly.” He got to his feet, his cologne moving with the air. “Now I can tell Mia that I have tasted a piece of Naples. I’m sure twenty cakes won’t be a problem for a woman as talented as you, Ms. Clarke.”

I watched him leave, relief sinking in. It was only when his black BMW sped away that I realised that he hadn’t paid for his cake – and what did I expect from a crook?