51. Chapter 44
Lorenzo
There’s one person I know I need to tell about my suspicions around Giovanni—and I don’t want to tell her.
It’s not that I think Mother won’t listen to my suspicions, but she’s already had so much grief recently, I don’t know if she can handle the news that her eldest son may have killed her husband.
Still, I think she has a right to know what I suspect.
After Dash leaves for his lunch, I call Mother and ask her if I can come over to talk. She must sense that it’s serious, because she says I can come over right away.
When I arrive, it’s mid-afternoon, and the sunlight is starting to creep toward the hazy amber color that turns everything gold.
My mother’s house still feels like stepping into another, older world.
It smells of clay and rosemary and woodsmoke.
Her own small, stubborn queendom that she designed to remind her of her old life, of the island country that will always be her home.
She welcomes me in and I let myself sit in that homey smell for a moment, breathing it in. Letting myself contemplate how I will deliver this news, news that may very well break her already fragile heart.
“You look like your father did,” she murmurs when she pours tea, “right before he told me that he wanted to change everything about this Family.”
I hide my shock. “You knew? You knew that Father wanted to change the Family? To legitimize it? Carlo thought you didn’t know.”
“Your father didn’t hide things from me. He just let Carlo believe that. Drink your tea before it gets cold. Whatever you came to tell me can wait until you’ve had it.”
I’m thankful for the chance to sit with my thoughts, drinking the tea silently. I hardly taste it—my brain is elsewhere, drafting and discarding a dozen ways to begin what I have to say.
Finally, I go for the direct approach. “I think Giovanni killed Father.” There’s no version in which I can deliver this news gently, so I might as well get straight to the point. “I’ve suspected it for weeks. And now I finally have evidence that makes me almost certain.”
I expected Mother’s face to crack when I delivered the news, but it doesn’t. There’s no flinch, no flash of disbelief, no motherly instinctive recoil.
Instead, her face goes very still, her dark eyes narrowing. “What is the evidence?”
So, I tell her. The arsons, how Dash has been working with the fire marshal, the shell companies and how they’ve been targeted. The fires predate Father’s death, so I tell her how I suspect Giovanni knew about Father’s plan to legitimize the company, and wanted to stop him before he could.
She listens without interrupting me, her hands folded tensely in her lap. When I finish, she’s quiet for a long time.
“I’ll admit that you’ve built a compelling case,” she says at last. “And I understand why you did, Enzo. I really do. You’re grieving.
We all are. We all want answers. But your brother, Enzo?
Giovanni is many things. Ambitious, yes.
Ruthless, indeed. But patricide? That’s an entirely different thing.
I know you, and I know Giovanni, and he would not do something like that—just like you wouldn’t. ”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s my son,” she says sharply. “Just as you are.”
“Mother, is it just that you don’t want to believe?”
She sighs. “Perhaps. But is that so wrong? Is it so wrong for me to trust the feeling in my gut that my son is innocent? I can assure you, he had no inkling of your father’s plans for our empire.
That knowledge was limited to Carlo and me.
There is no way that Giovanni knew.” Her voice sharpens.
“Yes, I don’t want to believe it. That doesn’t mean it’s true.
I have raised you and your brother. I do not see a murderer when I look at him.
He, like you, is grieving in his own dark way. ”
I try to relax some of the tension in my body. I had hoped that she would listen, that she would be willing to see what I believe to be the truth. But I don’t argue any further. There’s no use arguing with Paloma Diamante when she’s made up her mind about something.
“At least promise me you’ll be careful around him,” I implore. “Even if you don’t believe me.”
“I am always careful, Lorenzo. Around everyone.” She pours more tea with her long, delicate fingers. “Let’s not talk of such dark things anymore. You look so tired, my son. This has been eating you alive, hasn’t it? Ever since the fire. You must let it go.”
“I can’t.”
“Let’s talk of lighter things. Tell me of this boy you’re seeing. Dashiell. I miss him. Though if he’s encouraging these silly notions about your brother, I am not so sure I like him as much as I used to.”
I release a soft sigh. “Dash—he’s good.” The warmth creeps into my voice, and my mother’s sharp attention catches it immediately. “He’s…remarkable. Smart. Sharp. He’s the one who noticed the patterns in the fires, actually.”
“I thought we weren’t talking about darker things.”
I go quiet, looking away from her.
“My son.” She leans forward, and now there’s nothing guarded about her face. “Are you truly falling for this man?”
The question lands hard—especially after today.
I think of Dash, asleep on my chest, trusting me enough to let his guard down entirely.
I think of the shower, of the club, of the punishment, of the way he whispers and cries my name.
I think of how badly it frightens me, wanting him the way that I do.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
A lie. I know exactly how I feel.
“I think you do know,” she says gently. “But I think you’ve decided that it’s safer if you don’t say it out loud. Trust me, I understand how that feels. I was scared to love your father, yet I was certain that I did.”
“This is different. I’m not marrying Dash.”
“But, would you?”
Fuck. Would I?
“I truly don’t think I can answer that question, Mother. I—we barely know each other.”
“He’s living with you.”
“So I can protect him.”
“And why do you want to protect him?”
“He saved my life. I made him a promise.”
She smiles, soft and motherly. “Indeed you did. Is that not what a relationship is? A series of promises, of vows? Look in your heart, my son. Don’t let yourself be consumed by this dark quest for vengeance. Don’t let it cost you something good.”
I have no answer to that. I simply nod, let her refill my tea again, and sit with the smell of the rosemary and clay and woodsmoke, turning her questions over and over in my head.