7. Nico
NICO
I'm still standing under the pergola when Giorgia comes outside.
She doesn't say anything at first. Just crosses over to the small table near the door and straightens a vase that doesn't need straightening. I watch her do it in silence as I wait for her to finish and come to me.
"She's crying, principino," Giorgia says.
She hasn’t called me that nickname–little prince–since that night when I was nine. I reach up involuntarily to feel the scar on my face.
"She'll be alright," I say.
Giorgia looks at me. In all these years, she has perfected an expression that wins her an entire argument against me without ever uttering a single word.
"That girl’s been holding herself together since before she walked out of her room,” she says. "That dress didn't fit, Nicolas. She put it on anyway and she stood there and she said what she was told to say."
I say nothing.
"She's scared," Giorgia continues. "And she is furious. And she has no idea where she is or who to trust or whether anyone in this house will ever be on her side." She pauses to let me take in the weight of her words. "Why are you so intent on making her hate you?"
"Mother hated father, didn't she?"
Giorgia puts the vase down harder than either of us expects. “And are you your father, Nicolas?"
Question of my fucking life.
I have been asking one version or the other of that question every damn day, and it’s only ever become more frequent after I put a bullet in his head.
And I still haven’t been able to find a satisfying answer.
"His blood flows in my veins.” I decide. “His defects, too."
"You didn't belong only to your father, principino."
"There's no room for love in this family, Giorgia.” I sigh. “You know that. Every D'Ambrosio who dared to think otherwise had it beaten out of them. Or worse."
She sighs. “Your father is gone now. Don’t let his ghost haunt you for the rest of your life.”
I drag a hand across the back of my neck.
Lydia is up there crying because of me. How am I anything other than my father’s son?
"She doesn't need me up there," I say.
"No, not right now, she doesn’t," Giorgia agrees. "But that doesn't mean you get to stand down here and pretend like you’re not breaking her heart."
She smooths her apron. "You made a choice when you brought her here."
"I know."
"Then you will do well to remember that she didn't choose any of this." Her voice doesn't rise. "One way or another, principino, you were the one who placed a crown that she never wanted on her head. And it’s up to you to make it easier for her to wear it."