Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Dad is the king.
The first chess piece sent to me had been intentional.
It was a message that Dad had been killed first and now the rest of us would suffer the same fate one by one.
The killer had been mocking me this entire time and I never realized it.
These thoughts flood my mind as I spend the next day at home in bed.
I told everyone I was sick, and in a way, it’s true.
My spirit is unraveling.
I’m sick with guilt.
Sick with rage.
Sick with the realization that my father had kept a secret.
I pull the blankets over me like they can shield me from my dad’s confession.
Ten years since my father’s death. In all those years, I never once looked in that box.
I had buried it in the shadows of the basement.
I guess I didn’t want to deal with the fact that my father was truly gone.
Anything he wanted me to have would only make me miss him more.
If I had opened the box, maybe I could have exposed the truth.
Instead, I allowed the killer to remain part of our family for years. This person had smiled in my face and pledged loyalty, all while keeping a secret about how my father died.
But the part that claws at me the most isn’t the murder.
It’s Francesca.
To think of my father loving another woman before my mother feels weird.
However, there is no denying the softness in my father’s words when he spoke about Francesca.
It’s cute how he believed, as a teen, that even when everything was against them, love could rewrite fate. That they could survive the hatred of their families and forge a life together. But their dreams of a happily-ever-after ended in tragedy and buried their unborn child in silence.
Is Dominic my Francesca?
Are we a tragedy in the making?
The thought makes me ill.
The walls feel like they are closing in, and I can’t breathe.
I accept food from Mom and Nonna, answer the chime of Gigi’s text, letting her know I’m still alive, and meet with Matteo on the front porch.
All while keeping Dad’s confession to myself.
“I’m fine. I’m hurting. I’m tired.”
Everyone accepts my excuses without interrogation.
Time blurs. At some point, the sun dips below the skyline.
My eyes are glued to the ceiling as I rack my brain for answers.
I have a chessboard of traitors but no one to checkmate.
Tears blur my vision.
I hate my father for keeping secrets.
I hate the fact that his loving someone got her killed.
I miss him, his laugh, his harsh advice, his presence.
This confession is suffocating me.
Did Mom know?
Probably not.
And to top it off, I had a sibling who never got to live.
Dad kept that pain locked away, and now it’s mine to carry.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper. “I’ll do my best to make it right.”