36. Isabella
CHAPTER 36
Isabella
I thought that Lorenzo might try to avoid me for the next few days—it wouldn’t be totally out of character for him—but after an absolutely awful night of feigning sleep, Lorenzo demanded that we have breakfast together. Alone.
We drove, largely in silence, to a diner not far from the estate. “Give us the corner booth,” Lorenzo said as we stepped through the glass door.
The waitress at the host stand sighed. “Sir, the corner booth is for parties of six or more.”
I could hear it when Lorenzo’s jaw popped. “Give. Us. The. Booth,” he said slowly, enunciating as if he thought she was hard of hearing.
She didn’t want to bend to him, that was clear from the sour look on her face. I stepped slightly in front of him. “Ma’am,” I said, drawing her attention to me. “Could we please have that booth? My fiancé isn’t a big fan of crowds, and the corner gives him a little bit of space.” I painted my lips with a beseeching smile, and I knew it the moment she was going to give it to us.
“Follow me,” she said, grabbing two of the menus from the podium.
I glanced at Lorenzo, expecting him to be happy or proud or something, but he looked just as annoyed as before. Maybe even more so, except now that sour expression was aimed directly at me. I rolled my eyes and followed the waitress, leaving him to trail after me.
The corner booth was big enough that I could slide into one side, and it left plenty of space between Lorenzo and me. He casually flipped through the menu, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. When I glanced down at mine, I could barely read the words. Everything about this felt wrong.
It was the type of anger that wasn’t from violence, and neither of us was entirely in the wrong, and it left me feeling wholly unsettled. “Can you just say whatever it is you want to say?”
Lorenzo looked at me. He was utterly expressionless. “I want three eggs and crispy bacon.”
I contemplated throwing the bowl of sugar packets at his head. “You could have had that at home,” I pointed out. “You wanted me out of the house for a reason, so tell me.”
“Cristian walked away from the seminary,” he said, just as expressionless as before, but I could see that he was forcing it now. He was upset that his brother had left the Church.
I reached across the table for his hand, but he jerked back so that he was out of my reach. The rejection stung. “I know it must be hard for you,” I said. “I know how much Cristian being in the Church meant to you, that you were able to give him a life outside of the Cosa Nostra.”
Something flashed across Lorenzo’s face. It was there and gone again. But I recognized rage when I saw it. “It’s your fault.”
Every part of me froze. “Excuse me?”
“If you hadn’t been in the house when Father David came to dinner, Cristian wouldn’t have lost his mentor. He wouldn’t have lost his way.”
It felt like my blood was being replaced with ice water. That I was being filled up from the inside, left to drown in my own body. “I suppose not,” I said, voice tight. “But your brother would still be working with a murderer, who could have corrupted him.”
Lorenzo shrugged. “The same could be said about me, but he still sees me weekly.”
The conversation lulled when the waitress came for our orders. She only ever made eye contact with me, and I tried to keep a smile on my face to show her that everything was okay…even if nothing was okay.
When she bustled away to place our order, I looked at Lorenzo, trying to find the man who loved me beneath this veneer of misplaced anger and scorn. “So, you think that I’m the reason that Cristian is suffering? Because I happened to be in a specific location at a specific time?”
Lorenzo lip curled into a snarl. “If you hadn’t?—”
I held up my hand, stopping him. Even if I had asked the question, I didn’t think I could stand to hear the answer. “We’re not doing this.” I stood up. “Call Damian or Elio to come get me, or I swear to God, I will walk back.”
“Sit down,” Lorenzo commanded. “You haven’t eaten yet.”
I didn’t sit. He would have to drag me back into the seat kicking and screaming if he wanted me to stay here with him. “Surprisingly, getting blamed for being almost murdered hasn’t really encouraged my appetite.”
“Isabella.”
“Lorenzo,” I shot back at him. “I refuse to be blamed for something that happened to me without my consent when I was barely eighteen. What happened in that bathroom was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and I have nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m not saying that it wasn’t,” he said.
I scoffed. “Then, what are you saying?” Pain began throbbing at my temples. “Look, if your brother lost his faith, I am truly sorry for him, but maybe questioning himself before he fully commits to the priesthood isn’t a bad idea.” Lorenzo didn’t say anything. He just continued to stare hard at the table beneath his hands. The pain in my head spiked again. I can’t do this . “Call one of your lackeys,” I reminded him, “or I am walking back myself.”
I half-expected him to stand and demand that I get back in my seat. It wouldn’t be surprising if he did—in a normal situation, he would call me a brat, and things would take a sexual turn—but Lorenzo simply pulled his phone out and pressed a few buttons. “If you don’t want to sit, go wait by the door,” he said, not looking at me. “Only go outside when Damian pulls up.”
I blinked, astonished. Was he being serious? After months of doggedly disallowing any time away from him, especially out in public, he was going to let me walk away now?
Even if it was what I wanted—space to calm down and hope that he would pull his head out of his own ass—my stomach still twisted as I turned and trudged over to the space in front of the host stand. The waitress stared at me, confused, but she didn’t ask if I needed anything. Smart woman , I thought.
A few minutes later, Damian’s black SUV pulled up, and I left the diner without even a glance back. “Is everything okay?” he asked as I slid into the passenger seat.
“No,” I said and leaned my head against the window. “Everything is not okay.”