‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘No, I know that,’ she said that with a nod that, thank God, suggested she not only knew it but also believed it. ‘None of it was my fault. It was all his.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He went to jail, came out, did it again, and went back. As far as I know he’s still inside.’
‘He’d better stay there,’ he muttered, thinking it was for his safety because if he ever got his hands on the figlio di puttana he wouldn’t be responsible for the outcome.
‘He will. For a while, at least,’ she said, frowning faintly before rallying. ‘So, back to the original question, that’s why I went into crisis management. I know how powerful manipulation can be. I know its effects and the way in which it can be used to change people’s behaviours and make them believe whatever you want them to believe. It felt like a good fit. I realise it might sound strange, but channelling what happened to me into a successful career has been cathartic. So there we go,’ she finished with a quick smile that frankly defied belief. ‘That’s me. It’s your turn now.’
She sat back, regarding him expectantly, while inside he reeled. His turn? He could barely think straight. How could she be so composed when he wanted to hit something for the first time in years?
And how the hell could he not reciprocate after all that? How could he not answer her questions when she’
d answered his with such frankness and honesty? He didn’t want to simply brush aside what she’d told him, as if it meant nothing. It didn’t. Not to her.
He’d never told a living soul what he’d been through, but how much of a risk would it really be to share with her some of it the way she had with him? In one sense at least, her experiences hadn’t been all that dissimilar to his. They’d both been used, manipulated and exploited for the benefit of others. She had to know some of the disillusionment he’d once felt, the shattering of hopes and dreams and the determination to never allow it to happen again. Any revelation he chose to make would therefore be safe with her. He had nothing to fear. He hoped.
‘What do you want to know?’ he said, and the look of relief that filled her expression, as if she’d fully expected him to refuse to stick to his side of the bargain despite everything she’d told him, was like a blow to the gut. He might have many flaws, but a lack of integrity wasn’t one of them nowadays.
‘What made you go into fund management?’
‘I was given an opportunity and took it,’ he said, silently vowing to at least try to be as open and honest as she’d been in an effort not to disappoint her.
‘When?’
‘When I was sixteen.’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘That’s young.’
To some, perhaps. But not to him. He’d lived two brutal lifetimes by that age. ‘I started off at an investment bank working as a clerk. In a year I’d acquired the qualifications necessary to trade on La Borsa.’
‘The Italian stock exchange?’
‘Corretto. It’s here in Milan. I told you I was good with numbers. Well, I was also good at spotting opportunities no one else could see. I took risks and they paid off. I made my first million at eighteen. When I was twenty-four, I left to set up my own fund. I had no trouble picking up clients. I now have six billion euros under management.’
‘All on your own?’
‘With the exception of some back office support, yes.’
‘That’s quite an achievement.’
‘As is yours.’
‘We’re not quite in the same league,’ she said with a wry grin—a real one—that lit her eyes and stole his breath, before it disappointingly disappeared and her expression sobered. ‘So where were you for the six years between your parents’ death and starting work at this investment bank?’
He tensed, every fibre of his being demanding that he shut up, but he wasn’t going to. He’d agreed to this and he didn’t go back on his word these days, no matter how great the temptation. ‘Initially I went into foster care,’ he said, forcing himself to relax while telling himself it would be fine.
‘You had no other relatives?’
If only. ‘No. I lived with four different families in two years. Every time I thought I was settled I got moved on like an unwanted parcel. Eventually I decided that I’d be in charge of where I lived. I ran away. Frequently. At first I was caught and returned, but after a while they simply stopped looking.’
She stared at him, her eyes wide and filling with an emotion he couldn’t begin to identify. ‘Just like that?’
‘Pretty much. I was very good at hiding.’
‘What did you do?’