‘I know that.’ Lazzaro nodded, only they both knew it wasn’t the point.
Bravely, Antonia continued. ‘And I’m sure he’s forgiven you for what you did…’ She walked over to him, her voice thick with tears as she pleaded for him to listen. ‘If it’s any help at all, I forgave you too—a long time ago…’ She put up her hand to his cheek, to touch the scar there, but he couldn’t let her, pushed her hand away. His sister’s forgiveness was not what he needed. ‘Lazzaro, you have to let it go…’
‘I have let it go.’
‘Oh, but you haven’t, Lazzaro. You’re hardly here, and you’ve hardly been in the same room with our mother since it happened.’ Her voice was rising, as if she was anticipating him talking over her, anticipating him terminating the conversation, as he always did. ‘We have to talk about it.’ There was an almost begging note to Antonia’s tone. ‘This is killing you—I can see that.’
‘There is no point going over and over—’
‘We haven’t been over it once!’ Antonia sobbed, her every feature, every movement exhausted—not just from her pregnancy, but from the strain of the past two years. ‘Since that day at the hospital it has never been discussed, and we need to do that, Lazzaro—with Mamma too. We need to talk. I need to hear—’
‘No, Antonia, you don’t!’ Lazzaro snapped the words out, watched her recoil at his harshness and hated himself for it. But he consoled himself with the truth: Antonia didn’t need to know more of what had happened that day, just as she didn’t need to know what had happened this day. If somehow he could carry it alone, somehow he could deal with it, keep it from her, then surely it was the right thing to do? But his voice was a touch softer when he spoke next. ‘Is talking going to bring him back?’
‘You know it’s not.’
‘Is talking going to change what happened that day? Change what Luca saw?’ He watched her shake her head in regret. ‘Then how the hell can it help?’
‘Lazzaro, please…’ Antonia begged, but she knew it was useless—knew there was no getting through to him tonight—knew that she had no choice other than to let it go.
‘Where’s Malvolio?’
‘He took his drink outside…’ Antonia’s voice was flat with weary resignation as she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and tried to resume normality—whatever the hell that was in this family. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’
‘I’ll go and talk to him out there. You rest up.’ He waited till she’d lowered herself back onto the sofa, tried to keep his voice normal, to not betray the bile that was churning in his stomach, the fury that was straining to break free, to look, to sound, to act as if he’d just popped over to see his family.
Family!
In a couple of weeks Malvolio and Antonia would have another baby—a brother or sister for Marianna…What was that bastard doing to his sister, to his niece, to the baby that wasn’t even born yet?
As he strode out through the French windows, his mind involuntarily went one step further. What had that bastard done to Caitlyn?
Lazzaro didn’t plan things—that was what he paid his staff to do. His busy life was a well-oiled machine that left him free to walk into to any meeting, any boardroom, and instinctively take over—no preparation required for his brilliant mind to assess any situation. But he wished he had prepared for now.
He saw his brother-in-law, his colleague, and to this point his friend standing leaning against the stone wall, a sticking plaster on the hand that was holding his glass. Malvolio’s eyes were completely unable to meet his, and for a second Lazzaro truly didn’t know what to say.
The truth was so damning, so utterly reprehensible, so loaded with consequence, he wanted to dispute it.
Wanted Caitlyn to be wrong—almost wanted her to be lying.
Only—sick to the stomach—he was sure that she wasn’t.
‘What did she say?’ Malvolio’s face was as white as chalk, a muscle pulsing in his cheek. ‘What did that little bitch have to say—?’