Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“You’re married.”
“Yes.”
“To Marco Catenzio.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
The question contains more than curiosity.
“That’s complicated.”
“Most things worth explaining are.”
I should tell him everything.
He may be my father.
He is also a powerful man I met twenty minutes ago.
“I lived with Viktor for six years. I escaped.”
“I was told.”
“What does that mean?”
“I began investigating after your letter arrived.”
Of course he did.
“Marco found me before Viktor did. I stayed with him and Gio.”
“Then Catenzio returned you.”
My fingers close around the ring.
“How do you know that?”
“I asked questions.”
“That wasn’t the entire story.”
“He delivered you to Viktor’s door.”
“Yes.”
Matteo’s face goes cold.
“Why?”
“Viktor threatened my sister and everyone connected to the Catenzio household.”
“And Marco chose to sacrifice you.”
“He had a plan.”
“Did you know about it?”
“No.”
“Then he sacrificed you.”
The words reopen something I’ve been trying to close.
“He got me out.”
“By marrying you.”
“Yes.”
“How did Viktor profit?”
I look away.
Matteo understands.
“He sold you.”
“Marco didn’t buy me.”
“What would you call exchanging money for a bride?”
“An exit.”
“That sounds like Catenzio’s language.”
“It’s mine.”
The sharpness of my response surprises us both.
Matteo studies me.
“Do you love him?”
The question lands too close.
“I don’t know.”
“Does he love you?”
“Yes.”
I’m certain of that now.
“Did he tell you?”
“He doesn’t have to.”
Matteo’s expression suggests he finds that answer inadequate.
“And his brother?”
My pulse jumps.
“What about Gio?”
“You arrived holding his hand.”
I think of the windows overlooking Prince Street.
Matteo’s men must have seen us enter.
“Gio is important to me.”
“While you’re married to Marco.”
“My relationships aren’t part of this conversation.”
“If I’m your father, they are.”
The warmth leaves the room.
I sit straighter.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He becomes still.
“No,” he says after a moment. “I don’t.”
The answer is correct.
The pause before it bothers me.
Matteo returns to the chair across from the desk.
“I’m sorry. I’ve known about you for five days. It appears I’m trying to recover nearly twenty-four years in one conversation.”
“I turn twenty-four tomorrow.”
His face changes.
“Your birthday is tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
He looks away.
Calculating.
Remembering.
“Maria left the house in November,” he says.
“She was already pregnant.”
“Yes.”
He presses one hand against his mouth.
For the first time, the powerful man disappears.
What remains is someone learning he had a daughter for nearly twenty-four years and never knew.
“I would have come,” he says.
The words are rough.
“If she had told me, I would have come for both of you.”
My eyes begin to burn.
“I wish she had.”
“So do I.”
Silence settles between us.
Below us, the grocery bells ring. A child runs across the second-floor landing, followed by an adult telling him to slow down. Ordinary life continues on the other side of the office walls.
Matteo doesn’t move closer.
Doesn’t ask me to comfort him.
I appreciate that.
After a moment, he reaches into his jacket again and removes a small velvet box.
He places it on the desk.
“What is it?”
“Something of hers.”
Inside is a silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon.
I lift the chain.
The metal trembles between my fingers.
He watches me.
“It’s yours.”
I close the box.
“Thank you.”
Matteo stands.
The movement brings Dario closer to the door.
“I won’t overstay whatever time you intended to give me.”
“I didn’t set a limit.”
“Your guards did.”
I almost smile.
“Marco set it.”
“Of course.”
He leaves the photographs.
“You can keep those.”
“All of them?”
“I have copies.”
“Marco would approve.”
“I doubt Marco and I approve of much about each other.”
The warning is light.
Still present.
“Will you submit to a DNA test?” I ask.
Matteo looks at me.
“Yes.”
“You don’t want one?”
“I don’t need one.”
“You barely know me.”
“I knew your mother.”
“That isn’t proof.”
“No.”
He glances at the glass horse.
“But it’s enough for me.”
“It isn’t enough for the rest of your family.”
His expression changes.
“You’ve done your research.”
“Marco has.”
“Then Marco knows recognizing you would have consequences.”
“He said it might.”
“It will.”
“What consequences?”
“That is a longer conversation.”
“I’m beginning to dislike that phrase.”
A faint smile appears.
“So did Maria.”
“I want the test.”
“Then we’ll arrange it through an independent laboratory. You choose which one.”
“Results go directly to both of us.”
“Agreed.”
He nods.
“May I see you again?”
The question surprises me.
Not because he asks.
Because he asks permission.
“Yes.”
Relief appears before he conceals it.
“May I hug you?”
My throat tightens.
I nod.
Matteo crosses the space between us slowly.
His arms close around me.
For one moment, I remain stiff.
Then I breathe.
His shirt smells faintly of cedar and understated cologne. One hand settles against the back of my head.
The embrace is careful.
Almost reverent.
My eyes close.
I don’t know whether he’s my father.
My body doesn’t recognize him.
There is no magical certainty. No missing part of me sliding into place.
Only warmth.
Grief.
Possibility.
When he releases me, his eyes are bright.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“Not knowing.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“No.”
His gaze drops briefly to my wedding ring.
“But I intend to understand everything that happened after.”
The words sound like a promise.
Perhaps a threat.
He leaves the office.
I wait until his footsteps descend the stairs.
Only then do I sit behind my mother’s desk and open the velvet box again. The silver crescent rests against the dark lining, bright and delicate and far heavier than it should be.
The door opens a few minutes later.
Gio enters first.
Marco follows.
Neither asks what was said.
Gio looks at the photographs spread across the desk.
Marco notices the pendant.
“How did it go?” Gio asks.
“I don’t know.”
It’s the only honest answer.
I pick up the picture of my mother in Matteo’s jacket.
“He loved her.”
Marco studies the photograph.
“I believe he did.”
“He didn’t know about me.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
The certainty surprises me.
Gio sits on the edge of the desk.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Yes.”
Marco’s expression remains neutral.
“You think that’s a mistake,” I say.
“I think you should be cautious.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
“What aren’t you saying?”
His gaze settles on the photographs.
“Matteo lost Maria without understanding why. Now he’s discovered she hid his only child from him.”
“So?”
“Men like Moretti respond poorly to losing things.”
“I’m not a thing.”
“I know.”
“Does he?”
Marco looks at me.
“I think he wants to.”
The answer follows me back to Belmont.
So does Matteo’s embrace.
My mother’s pendant rests against my chest.
For the first time, I know what it feels like to stand between two histories.
The family that made me.
The family I chose.
I don’t yet understand whether finding my father will make my life larger.
Or give another powerful man a reason to close his hand around it.