Chapter 21
21
M assimo
"Massimo," Daphne says, sashaying toward me like we're old friends meeting for coffee after a long time. "It's so nice to see you."
She motions to hug me, but I step away and lift my hand in denial to show her this isn't a pleasant conversation. "Daphne, why are you here?"
She shrugs. "The other performer got sick, and I offered to take her place."
I rub my temples. This conversation will end a lot quicker if she doesn't lie. "I don't think she got sick. I think you weaseled your way into my father's birthday party." I make myself a mental note never to use this burlesque company again. This mistake won’t be repeated.
Daphne steps toward me, a gentleness touching her eyes. "Does it matter? I got to see you,” she says, a soft filter crossing her expression.
I can see her unlocking the door to all the memories we shared. Memories that seem so far away. She could have been anyone else.
Fuck. I shake my head, frustrated. "Daphne, I'm married."
She perches her hand on her waist, tilting her head. "When we were last together, you said you didn't know when we'd meet again. You never said we were completely over," she says gently.
A couple of guests pass us by and wave goodbye to me. Oh, great. Now everyone can see me talking to her. Her body language and how she looks at me give it away that this is emotional for her.
"We're over. I'm telling you that now," I say evenly.
"Is it because of your wife?" She walks in a small circle, gesturing with her hands. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm impulsive sometimes. I shouldn't have gone over to talk to her. But you don't need to be so harsh. The whole city knows how your dad operates. The apple can't fall that far from the tree."
I imagine that many see me the same way she does. I'm the firstborn, taking over my father's dealings—might as well be a cheating bastard like he was. "We're done. Over. Finito . I'm not going to give you reasons. Please don't contact me or my wife again, or it won't end well for you," I say cooly, looking at her straight in her eyes to ensure she gets the message.
She scowls, then smooths her dress as if trying to regain composure. "Fine. Asshole."
There you go. Think of me as the asshole.
I turn and dash away, striding across the garden to leave the back way to get out of here quicker when Vittoria approaches. Her husband isn't in sight.
"Massimo. I saw Amara heading out," she says, blocking my way to make it clear she wants a word with me.
I come to a halt. Excellent. Amara has left, waiting for me in the security of our limo, far from Daphne and anyone else who may want to ruin our night—her mom included. "I'm meeting her in the car."
She lifts her index finger, squinting at me. "Don't make a fool out of my daughter. If you do, I'll look a fool too. And I don't enjoy that."
"I promise you that's not the case," I say, unfazed by her aggressive energy.
I've noticed that Amara recoils whenever her mother is around. Her father, too, I guess, but he doesn't talk much. I assume most of the emotional damage he inflicted on Amara was in not speaking up when her mother committed atrocities against her—but maybe I'm giving him too much credit. Neither of them deserves any.
Vittoria looks around to ensure no one hears us. Most guests have gone inside or started to leave, so no one pays attention. "I understand that Amara is not the prettiest girl in the room, but that doesn't give you the right to stray—without hiding it."
Not the prettiest girl in the room. Her words echo in my ears. I could laugh at the inaccuracy. "Do you hear yourself? You're fucking disgusting."
She raises her hand to her chest like I offended her somehow. "Excuse me? For trying to help my daughter?"
I don't have time for this shit. "Amara is beautiful and caring, no thanks to you. I know how you treat her. You're lucky she has more compassion than I will ever have." I could wipe her mother from this world and not blink. But that would hurt Amara, and I don't want that. She cares, even when people aren't worthy.
Vittoria rolls her eyes as if this conversation annoys her. Then, she leans closer and whispers, "Why did you kill Ugo?"
"Because that son-of-a-bitch beat the fuck out of her. My only regret was not being rougher. The bastard deserved it."
Vittoria takes a couple of steps back, blinking. "You barged into my home and killed my best employee because he punished her years ago? Do you even know what she did?"
My fingers curl into a fist, and I remind myself Vittoria is Amara’s mother. "She told me everything," I spit out.
A spark flickers in her eyes, and she purses her lips. "She couldn't tell you everything… because she doesn't know everything."
Fine… I'll bite. "What did she leave out?"
She lifts her eyebrow, an expression of self-importance crossing her face. "Did she tell you that her dear James was a lowlife journalist? He was writing an expose on our family."
"Is it true?"
She nods. "He never loved her. Got involved with her, yes, but he wanted to find out the truth about the Montefiores. He was a journalist and also a mafia aficionado. And a pretty stupid person if you ask me. Did he think the newspaper would protect him from us once the story came out?"
"He loved her," I say, the memory of her talking about this guy flashing in my head. I even got jealous of a dead person. Of course, he loved her… why wouldn't he?
"No, he didn't… and you think I'm such a bad mom. I never told her that. I wanted to, but my husband told me not to."
I tower over her. "She can't know. You can't tell her," I say in a voice that doesn't admit any opposition. Let Amara believe that James loved her. Who's to say he didn't? She'd be hurt if she found out he was writing a piece on her family. And this crappy family already hurt her enough—especially her mom.
She lifts both hands in surrender, retreating. "Don't worry, I don't intend to. I'm glad we've cleared up things. I was worried about why you killed Ugo. I don't condone killing if there isn't a good reason."
"There's always a good reason if you look close enough. Are we clear?"