Page 64 of Damon

When Annie and I return to the house, we find Emma in the kitchen. She glances up from whatever she’s stirring in a silver bowl. “Hello,” she says, flashing me a huge smile. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, and over the top is an apron. Connie’s apron, with the words Top Cook written in pink writing across the chest. She must have found it in the cupboard. She skips out from behind the island and hurries in our direction, holding out her arms for Annie. My little girl reaches forward.

“Hello, my little munchkin,” Emma says sweetly. Her blonde hair is tied into a long ponytail on top of her head. “Come here and give me a cuddle.” I pass my daughter to her and watch them in awe. The interaction between them is so natural and maternal that it’s startling, and a far cry from how it was a matter of months ago. Back then, every time Emma picked up Annie, she looked terrified she would break her. The scene today is both heartwarming and gut-wrenching; in this moment, my late wife seems to have all but disappeared.

“Hey,” I say, and she peeks at me from under her lashes. I place my hand on her waist then lean down to kiss her cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

She smiles then blushes a beautiful shade of pink. “Very, something must have worn me out. It was blissful.”

“I plan to maintain your constant state of blissfulness then.” She giggles, and my heart strains. In these moments, she’s so fucking sweet and innocent, never mind young compared to me. “What were you making?” I signal to the kitchen worktop where the silver bowl and spatula sit abandoned.

“Oat cookies,” she replies, “I was reading a parenting book, and…”

“A parenting book?” I interrupt, surprised.

“Yes, about weaning and good foods for children to eat with their hands. The cookie recipe was included as a snack option. I thought I’d try. Is that all right?” Her tone turns nervous, uncertain blue eyes run over my face. My emotions are caught between pain and gratitude. Part of me hates that Connie isn’t here to experience this family moment, while the other part is eternally indebted to the young woman in my kitchen.

“Of course,” I tell her. “You’re doing an amazing job with Annie. She could never have a better nanny.” She stills slightly on the word “nanny” but doesn’t say anything. “I’ve been thinking,” I say, wanting to divert the conversation and ignore the awkwardness I just caused. “How do you feel about learning a little self-defense? With everything that has happened, I’d feel better if you knew how to kick a guy in the nuts.” She snorts with laughter.

“You’ll teach me?” she asks once her giggles are under control.

“Yes, if that is all right? We can use the gym when no one else is there. I’ve asked Mrs. D to pop around tonight and watch Annie.”

“Tonight?” she says, surprised I think. “Um…”

I take her free hand in mine, then interlink our fingers. “Emma, I can’t lose you. Please, do this for me. I want to know you can protect yourself if those bastards manage to get near you again. Or you can go for option two?”

“What’s option two?” she mumbles, grimacing at me.

“I lock you in this house until Moreno is dead and buried.”

Chapter twenty-three

Damon, Emma and Annie's Home, London

Emma

Tonight, Damon has told me we’re going to the gym and I’m going to learn to protect myself. He’s not taking any risks with my safety, but his priority is that I am capable enough to stand up to whatever bastard is trying to kill me now. The results of the incident in my apartment earlier this year did swing in my favor—however, much of it was luck. The fact I survived is beyond belief.

Then on my run, it was my brain rather than my body that enabled me to put distance between myself and my attackers. The setting being a public park meant I was close to too many sets of eyes for them to risk much more. However, these men are not stupid, and Moreno has made it quite clear he wants me. I know his intention will be to seek revenge for the time behind bars that my words caused him to serve.

With my history, violence is something I’ve always avoided. I suppose losing my parents the way I did, it could have gone one of two ways. I chose to use my brain and seek justice legally, rather than with a gun. Others don’t choose the same path. Some of the kids I met in the childrens’ homes are already dead or in prison. Most of them ended up in the system after choosing the route of aggression. It was obvious from our daily life in the home that they couldn’t control their emotions. There wasn’t a day that passed when an argument didn’t ensue.

I lived in a small white manor house near the sea in Devon along with ten other orphans. As I was already in my mid-teens when I lost my parents, I was one of the oldest. Some of us came from tragic circumstances like me, while others had been abandoned or born into deadbeat families who wouldn’t or couldn’t care for them. The adults who cared for us in the manor house were kind but not truly invested. Our maintenance was their job; they all had lives beyond the walls and garden of the orphanage. The sad but true reality was that no living soul wanted us.

As I stand looking in my full-length mirror, I pull my hair into a ponytail on top of my head then split it in two and yank. The band tightens against my scalp. My pink cropped sports top fully covers my breasts; the wide white band beneath offers further support. When I started running, I invested in firm support so as not to lose an eye from my nipples. The matching leggings along with pale pink trainers complete the look. I’ll look like a little girl’s doll kicking the shit out of a punching bag this evening. Even though the summer nights are warm, I slip on a thin sports jacket to cover my midriff until we get there. Once I’m satisfied that I look the part, I go off in search of Damon.

I find him in his bedroom; the sound of his voice carries through the crack in the barely open door. As I lift my hand to knock, I hear him speaking to Annie.

“Mummy,” he says, exaggerating each syllable of the word. “This is Mummy.” I freeze, unsure what to do. Knowing that the bed is situated to the right of the door, I take the chance of pushing it open slightly. Thankfully, it’s silent—unlike every other door in this old house.

In an attempt to keep out of sight, I move to the left of the doorway so I have an almost direct view of the bed. Damon is sitting with his back to me, though turned slightly so I can see Annie on his knee and a book in his hands.

“Mummy,” he says again. That’s when I realize what he’s holding is a photo album. He’s ensuring his daughter sees Connie, ensuring she knows who the woman in the photos is and what the plan was originally before she was cruelly taken from them.

The emotion that surfaces is one I’ve never felt before, a combination of awe, pain, and uncertainty swirling in my chest. Not wanting to be caught snooping, I reverse silently and go downstairs to wait for him.

He appears ten minutes later with Annie, still chatting away to her as if she can reply. I’m sitting on a single armchair which sits next to a side table in the hallway. There’s always a pile of magazines and newspapers on it to be read. Damon changes them often; most I would imagine go unread now Connie is gone, but it’s a habit he maintains still.

I watch him descend the stairs, one stable foot in front of the other. He’s dressed for the gym in his standard shorts and sports top, this time in royal blue. I stand as they reach me. He leans down and pecks my cheek. “You ready?”