One Night: Sizzling Attraction: Married for Amari's Heir / Damaso Claims His Heir / Her Secret, His Duty

“I think you believe I’m a bit more of a monster that I really am.” He said the words slowly, cautiously.

“Probably. But can you blame me, considering our introduction?”

“Can you blame me, considering our introduction?” His dark gaze was level, serious. And that guilt, that newfound guilt she felt deep down, bit her.

“I suppose not.” She didn’t really know what to say to that. Because she couldn’t justify her actions, not anymore. She had spent a lot of years doing just that. Because from the cradle, her father had educated her in an alternate morality that was not easy to shake. But the older she got, the more difficult it had become to justify what she knew was stealing.

It had been easy to hold on to righteous indignation where Rocco was concerned because of what had happened between them.

“I’m sorry,” she said, before she could fully think it through.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asked, his lips thinning into a grim line.

“Because we stole from you. It was wrong. You can dress things up...you can call them cons. You can call your victims marks. You can pretend it’s okay because they have money and you don’t. But at the end of the day it is stealing. And regardless of the fact that there was a time when I truly didn’t know better, I do now. But...if you knew my father, you would understand how easy it is to get sucked into his plans. There is a reason he is able to talk people into parting with their money, Rocco. He’s very convincing. He has a way of making you think everything will be okay. He has a way of making you think that somehow, you deserve what it is you’re going after. Regardless, my involvement was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

Hopefully, he wouldn’t have her thrown in jail.

But she felt that these things had to be said before they could move forward. Or maybe she was just half-delirious because she still didn’t feel very well. Or maybe his little gesture with the tea had meant a little bit more than she should let it. Either way, here she was. Confessing.

And she wasn’t just confessing to him, but to herself.

Suddenly, she felt drained. Dirty. Desolate.

Acquiring a moral compass was overrated.

“Do you suppose there’s a place in life where you become past the point of redemption?” she asked.

“I’ve never considered it.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “But then, that could be because I never imagined I had the option of redemption.”

“I probably don’t either then.”

“Is it so important? What’s the purpose, anyway? Is it that you want to be considered good?” he asked.

“I...I never really thought very much about whether or not I was good or bad. I remember asking my father one time why we were afraid of the good guys. The police. Because, even I knew from watching TV that they were supposed to be good. And people who ran from them were bad. So, I asked him if we were bad. He said it isn’t that simple. He said sometimes good people do bad things, and bad people do good things. He said that not everyone in a uniform is good. But I just wanted to know if we were good. Maybe I still do.”

“Does it matter?”

“Doesn’t it? I don’t know that anybody aspires to be one of the bad guys. And...I want to teach our child to be good so...I should be, too.”

“I suppose you can only really be a good or bad guy in your own life, at least, in my experience. There are a great many people who would characterize me as a villain, though I have never broken the law. However, I have accomplished what I set out to accomplish. I have created the life for myself that I always wanted. What does being good have to do with any of that?”

Charity frowned. “I don’t know. But I’m not sure I really know who I am. How can I know if I’m good or bad if I don’t know the answer to such a simple question?”

“Do you suppose if we get a nanny she can help us with these sorts of questions?”

Charity laughed, in spite of herself. “You mean, do you suppose she would mind helping a couple of emotionally stunted adults?”

“I suppose you and I don’t make the most functional pair.”

“Are we a pair?”

“Only in the sense that there are two of us, and we will be raising this child. Though, in what capacity I’m still not certain.”

She wanted to ask him about last night. Wanted to ask him if he had slept with someone else. But it seemed strange, and not her business. Since she had made a grand declaration about the fact that she would not be sleeping with him again.

Though, right now she felt less resolute in that. Possibly because she felt less resolute about everything. Because as soon as she had spoken the words about not knowing who she was, she realized that they were true. She knew how to put on masks, how to play parts. Even when she had decided to step away from her father, from the con games, all she had done was put on the mask of waitress, woman in her early twenties. She hadn’t made real connections with anyone, hadn’t made friends. Had not assigned any kind of depth to the persona she had been playing for the past couple of years.

For a moment, she was worried that was all there was. That she had played too many parts on too shallow a level to ever find anything beneath them. What kind of mother would that make her? What did that mean for the rest of her life?

No wonder it had been so easy for her mother to leave her. No wonder it had been so easy for her father to detach from her in the end. There was no substance in her to hold on to.

That can’t be true.

At least, she wouldn’t let it continue to be true. And she’d...she’d felt the implications of what she’d done. She still did. That had to mean something.

She needed dreams. She hadn’t let herself have any, not since the last con. Because, she was afraid that her dreams would outstrip her means, and that she would fall back into the same behavior she’d been raised in. But she couldn’t live like that. For the sake of her child, she had to be more.

Of course, she had no idea what her future held, because it seemed as though Rocco was currently clutching it in his palm. For those brief moments outside of his office, back in New York, she had imagined a life blissfully raising her child, alone. That had seemed satisfactory. But once again everything had been uprooted. Her fantasies proving impossible.

“Don’t worry about whether or not you are good or bad,” he said, finally. “What you really need to focus on is making it to a day where you don’t vomit in the morning.”

“Oh, Rocco. You do fill a girl with hope and butterflies.”

He frowned. “I am trying to help.”

“But you aren’t being nice,” she said, a small smile curving her lips. “According to you.”

He shook his head. “No, I am being practical. My mother used to bring me tea.”

Charity’s chest tightened. Imagining Rocco as a little boy, a little boy she knew had ended up alone. It made her ache for him. And it made her feel swollen with emotion. Because, this one bit of tenderness he seemed to know, he had chosen to pass on to her. Whether he called it practicality or kindness, it didn’t change the fact that he was giving some to her.

“Well, I appreciate it. I really do.” She cleared her throat and picked up one of the pieces of toast, neglecting the jam, because she wasn’t certain her stomach could handle it yet. “Though, you don’t need to come and hold my hair when I’m... It’s gross.”

“I find nothing gross about it. You are sick. You are sick because of my baby. It seems only fair that I should take care of you.”

“Is that what this is? You’re going to take care of me?”

“I confess, I hadn’t really thought it through.”

“Somehow, I feel like that’s the story of every single interaction you and I have had, indirectly or directly,” she said.

“Probably. Had one of us been thinking more clearly at any stage of this, things could’ve turned out quite differently.”

“Yes, we should begin that soon.”

“I’m thinking quite clearly now.”

Charity opened the small jar of jam and began to spread a little bit onto the piece of toast, feeling slightly more emboldened as she had taken three or four bites and not felt her stomach turn once. She lifted the toast to her lips, a little bit of bread crumb getting on her thumb, sticking to where some jam had made contact with her skin.