“To what end?” He shook some pills into his palm and tossed them back. I placed the water in front of him, but he washed down the drugs with a gulp of coffee. “I know you were young and may have forgotten,” he said, “but your mother trusted Cristiano above anyone except me, and he cared for her. You too.”
I hadn’t forgotten. Cristiano had been her protector, but that didn’t mean her instincts couldn’t have been wrong about him. “He knew how much you loved her, and he wanted revenge for what you did to his parents.”
“It wasn’t revenge. Take my word for it.” He replaced the cap on the pill bottle and looked at it pensively, as if lost in a thought. “It was a confusing time. I fell prey to my rage,” he said finally. “I needed someone to blame, and Cristiano had fled, so it was easy to convince myself he’d run out of guilt. There was no other possibility, no evidence but what I had in front of me, and what you and Diego saw. But looking back, deep down, I questioned how it was possible he’d done what he’d been accused of. To assault Bianca and steal from us—it was out of character for him.”
“But he did that for a living—he was a hitman.”
“For us. Not against us. Never did he so much as raise his voice toward either me or her.”
My throat thickened. Why couldn’t he recognize that his devotion to Cristiano might be misguided? I could admit there was a sliver of possibility another explanation existed for that day—but to blindly trust him after all this time? “I know what I saw. I know what felt. I see it in my nightmares, Papá—please.”
“I’m sorry, mija.” He reached out for my hand and squeezed it. “It must be hard to see him again, and maybe I should’ve warned you, but I was trying to—”
“Protect me, I know.” I took back my hand and covered my face. “He put a gun under my chin. He shot Diego. He left me in a tunnel.”
“He knew I would find you,” Dad said. “He was desperate. He understood I would’ve had no choice but to kill him with the evidence I had at the time.”
“I don’t know if I can believe any of it,” I said, my throat thick as I tried to control my emotions. “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t have to. You just have to trust me.” He returned to the sink for the clay pot and refilled his drink. “I’m sorry for what you saw last night,” he said with his back to me. “If I’d known you were watching . . .”
“You wouldn’t have done it?”
He turned his head over his shoulder, giving me his profile. “I would’ve had you removed from the party.”
I swallowed. He didn’t regret it.
A question I’d been fighting since the night before struggled to surface. If I’d believed that was the man who’d brutally attacked and killed my mother, would I have been as horrified?
If it’d been Cristiano up there with his hands tied and face beaten, would I have tried to stop it?
Or would I have reveled in his murder?
“You were there with Diego last night?” he asked.
Papá had heard my questions—now I’d have to answer some of his. I’d implicated both Diego and myself. “Yes.”
He dumped sugar into his coffee. “I’ll have to have a little chat with him then,” he muttered.
“Have the chat with me,” I said. “I want to talk to you about Diego anyway.”
“Don’t bother.” His spoon clinked the sides of the mug as he stirred. “My answer is no.”
“Papi, por favor—escúchame. You can’t tell me what to do anymore. You have to listen.”
“Bueno. Go ahead,” he said, with an inviting gesture. “But it will fall on deaf ears.”
“I love him.” He froze, his mug halfway to his mouth. “Don’t look so surprised,” I said. “You know I do.”
He lowered his drink, staring at me. “I know you think you do.”
“Why do you doubt it?” I asked. “Diego has been there for me practically since I was born. He takes care of me. He treats this family and me with respect. He loves me.”
“He is dangerous, Tali. Everyone here is. I wouldn’t let you date the fucking chief of police.”
I looked out the window. Two sparrows played in the terracotta birdbath Mom had hand-painted brown and green to look like a tree. Though the landscapers maintained it along with her garden, much of the paint had chipped off. “He’s not like the others,” I said, turning back. “Diego is sensitive. Sweet. Creative.”
My dad seemed to think a moment before he burst into laughter. “My sweet girl. You’re smart like your mother. She could teach me about everything from Shakespeare to how to have patience. She’d philosophize on the nuances of morality and ethics, then help me devise the best plan of attack against those who’d wronged me. She’d explain expressionism versus impressionism in a way that made me care.”