Chapter 11 Lucia #3
The coffee comes out too quickly, hands shaking just a little as Lazlo pours it, and I notice things I didn’t want to notice before: the new cracks in the ceiling, the stack of unopened mail, the way the furniture looks more worn than it should.
“That husband of yours,” Milo starts as I sip bitter coffee, a little ashamed to compare it to the sublime Java blend Giovanni’s housekeeper serves, “he insisted he didn’t hurt you. That you’d skipped town over a misunderstanding and a fight. That true?”
They both peer intently at me as I swallow, then nod.
“True-ish.”
They tense.
“Meaning?” Lazlo pushes. “We need to go over there, teach him a coupla lessons?”
I almost smile at the unlikely scenario, but I know they’ve been seriously worried about me.
“It was a little more than a misunderstanding, but it’s true. He didn’t hurt me like you think. He would never.” At least I can say that with a certainty.
They exchange a glance. Then nod.
I take another sip, then set my mug down.
“How’ve things been?” I ask carefully.
The silence that follows is too heavy.
Milo exhales slowly. “We’ve… had better years.”
My stomach drops.
Their business, a towing and auto repair shop, small, honest, built on sweat and stubborn pride, has always walked a thin line. Enough to live, never enough to coast.
And eighteen months is a long time for anything fragile to hold.
“Costs went up,” Lazlo adds. “Jobs dried up. We managed for a while.”
“And now?” I press.
They exchange another look I don’t like.
“And now we’re running out of rope,” Milo finishes.
The room tilts.
I swallow hard.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I would’ve come back,” I say fiercely. “I would’ve helped.”
Lazlo snorts softly.
“With what, Lu? You think money falls out of the sky?”
“No,” I snap, even as my unease grows. “But I also know the places you think is easiest to look for them isn’t always the right place.”
That lands, and I know I’m onto something when Milo’s jaw tightens.
“We didn’t go looking for him.”
My blood chills.
“Looking for who?”
“Your husband,” Lazlo says quietly.
I stare at them.
“He came around,” Milo continues. “Soon after you left. Then every few weeks after. Asking questions. He wanted to know where you were and wouldn’t take our word that we didn’t know.”
“And?” I say, heart hammering hard enough to distress my ribs.
“We told him to go to hell,” Lazlo says with grim satisfaction. “Accused him of mistreating you. Losing you.”
My chest swells, pride cutting through fear.
“He wasn’t, but good.”
Milo winces.
“Yeah, not sure about how good that was. We may have… offended him.”
That pride falters.
“How badly?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Bad enough that the room went cold.”
I close my eyes briefly.
Giovanni does cold like a weapon.
Still. Still, I’m proud of them.
Then Milo clears his throat.
“There’s something else.”
Every instinct in my body screams.
“What?”
“We heard you were back,” he says slowly. “Two days ago.”
My heart stutters wildly again.
“And?”
“Word was that you were alright. That you’d reconciled whatever differences you had. So… we went ahead. Asked him for a loan.”
The words hit like a punch and my vision blurs for a second.
“You what?”
“He wired it yesterday,” Lazlo adds. “No fuss. No conditions.”
I’m on my feet before I realise it, fury ripping through me so fast my hands shake and my coffee splashes over the table, drops landing on my Prada heels. The barest hint of irony tickles the back of my neck, but I ignore it.
“Are you insane?” I shout. “Of course there are conditions. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“We were desperate,” Milo snaps back. “And he’s your husband. Family.”
“No!” I scream. “Loans from men like him always come due. They don’t save you, they own you.”
Lazlo frowns.
“Wouldn’t it have been the same if it came from you?”
“No,” I say hoarsely. “Because he doesn’t forget. And he doesn’t forgive. And when he collects, people bleed.”
The room goes quiet, breaths snatched in.
Milo studies me carefully.
“But you said… Did you lie, bambina mia? Is he hurting you? Tell us the truth.”
The question knocks the air from my lungs.
I force myself to breathe. Slowly. Deeply.
A part of me wants to say yes, knowing it will likely reverse this train wreck I can see barrelling towards me.
But…
“No,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. “He isn’t.”
“Then what?” Lazlo presses gently.
I falter, look around the room, unwilling to admit the truth, even to myself.
Because when I replay the last few days honestly, without fear screaming over the memory, I see something that’s hard to dismiss.
I see Giovanni’s patience. Restraint. Indulgence, even. I see care I never asked for and couldn’t deny. A man who gives without demanding, who listens even when he doesn’t yield, who touches me like I matter.
My wall wavers, and the realisation terrifies me.
Who am I protecting with it?
My father’s memory? Or my own heart?
I shake my head and sit back down without answering.
After a tense minute, the atmosphere eases, and we carry on the conversation.
But I know when I leave them they’re a little confused and concerned by my reaction. Still, their love wraps around me even as disappointment and alarm sit heavy in the room.
I carry that confusion with me like a lit fuse as the car takes me back to Westchester.
Back to him.
When we arrive, I don’t wait.
I storm through the house, past startled staff, past guards who don’t dare stop me, straight into Giovanni’s study.