Ricardo
Chapter Twenty Two
The front door opens hard enough that I hear it all the way in my study where I am waiting for Julia to call.
Instead, I hear my son’s voice from the foyer.
“Where is he?”
Marisa answers him, calm but wary. “Dante—”
“Where is my father?”
I stand.
A second later, Dante appears in the doorway of my study.
He looks like the physical embodiment of anger. Hair disordered from his hands, coat still on, eyes bright with something far worse than temper. Hurt sits beneath it, raw and exposed, and seeing it on my son’s face sends a sharp, cold blade through my chest.
“Leave us,” I say to Marisa before she can follow him in.
She hesitates.
“Now.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she obeys, pulling the study door closed behind her.
Dante laughs once, bitter and humorless. “Of course. Send her away. Wouldn’t want witnesses.”
“Lower your voice.”
His eyes flash. “Do not tell me what to do.”
I stay where I am behind my desk because if I move toward him, he will take it as a challenge. If I soften, he will take it as pity. There is no right way to stand in front of a son you have wounded.
“Julia told you,” I say.
His face twists. “Yes, Julia told me. Alone, by the way. Very brave of you,” he says sarcastically.
“She insisted on telling you herself.”
“And you let her.” He steps farther into the room. “Of course you let her. Why be the one to face me when you could let her sit there and take the first hit?”
My jaw tightens. “You know me better than that.”
“I thought I did.”
The words strike hard, but I don't let it show.
Dante’s gaze moves over me, over the room, over the house he has known since we came to Chicago. His home and mine, suddenly foreign to him.
“A week,” he says, jaw tight.
“Yes.”
“I've seen you since then.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You looked me in the face and said nothing.”
I inhale through my nose. “We wanted to hold off on telling you right away.”
“Right away?” he says. “You think the problem is timing?”
“No.”
“Then what is the problem, Papà? Explain it to me. Since the two of you apparently had time to discuss my reaction, my feelings, and the best way to feed me the truth.”
“I did not want this hidden from you.”
“But you hid it.”
“For a short time.”
He laughs harshly. “Listen to yourself.”
I do.
I hear the weakness in the defense before the words finish leaving my mouth.
Dante does too.
He looks disgusted by it.
“You were with Julia,” he says, voice lower now. “Julia. My Julia.”
The possessive makes something in me tighten, but I keep my face still.
“Your friend,” I say.
“My family,” he snaps. “She was my family before she was whatever she is to you.”
“She remains your family. That has not changed.”
“You changed it.”
I accept the blow and feel for Julia.
Dante drags a hand through his hair and turns away, then turns back immediately, unable to keep still.
“I brought her into your life.”
His eyes narrow. “Do you hear yourself? Do you hear what you sound like? She has done nothing wrong.”
“She slept with my father.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“You have no idea what she's been through,” he says, and I can tell the words burst out before he could stop them.
Now I narrow my eyes, and my body stills.
Dante’s face changes at once. The anger does not leave, but it seals over, hard and protective.
“What has she been through?” I ask carefully.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“See? This is exactly the problem,” he says. “This is exactly how it starts.”
“Don't change the subject,” I say. “Tell me what you meant by that comment.”
“She was engaged,” he says, practically brushing it off. “Now she's not. Figure it out.”
I can tell he's being overly casual about it
A dark, lethal pressure opens inside me.
“What did he do to her?”
Dante’s eyes flash. “Do not.”
“What did he do?”
“Don't do this,” he warns. “I told her this would happen. I told her confidence would be broken. I won't be the one to do it.”
“It’s important if he—”
“It matters to her,” he cuts in. “And if she hasn’t told you the details, those reasons are hers.”
My hands curl at my sides.
Dante sees it and steps closer, fury sharpening again.
“There it is,” he says. “That look. That Conti look. Someone hurt something you consider yours, so now you want a name, a place, a way to make him pay.”
“He hurt her.”
“You don’t know what he did.”
“I will if you tell me.”
“No.”
“Dante.”
“No!” His voice echoes through the room. “No, I will not stand here and hand you pieces of her because you think you have a right to them now. She told me because I was safe. Because I was separate. I told her things because she was safe, separate.”
The words stop me.
For the first time since he walked in, I look away.
Dante breathes hard.
“And now I do not know what I am to her,” he says.
“What you are to her has not changed.”
He shakes his head. “You are in the middle now. That changes everything.”
“It doesn't have to.”
“Whose truth is that?” he demands. “Yours? Hers? The version the two of you decided on before you let me in?”
“We did not decide on a version. We simply needed time—"
“You decided enough.”
I have no defense.
He moves deeper into the study, past the chair where he used to sit, even a few weeks ago, arguing with me over anything and everything.
“I told her things about you,” he says.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice drops. “I told her things because she was mine to tell. Because she wasn’t part of this life. Because she wasn’t going to go home to you afterward.”
“She would never betray your confidence.”
“That is not the point.”
I say nothing.
He laughs under his breath, and the sound is worse than shouting.
“God, you really don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think.”
“No.” He points at me. “You understand possession. You understand taking charge and calling it love. You understand seeing something precious and closing your fist around it before anyone else can touch it.”
My jaw tightens.
“And you understand walking into a room with all that power and making people feel like refusing you is disloyal.”
“That is enough.”
“It isn’t even close to enough.”
“Dante.”
He steps closer, and the hurt in his eyes is so plain, the sight of it nearly breaks something in me.
“I trusted you with her,” he says.
My chest tightens.
“I trusted her with you.” My son’s voice shakes.
“And somehow I am the fool standing between you both, finding out after the fact that the two people I trusted most in the world had a secret together.”
I step around the desk.
“Dante—”
“Stay there.”
I stop.
The command comes out of him like pain, and I obey because he needs me to.
He looks startled for half a second, as if he did not expect me to listen.
Then the anger comes back.
“Did you think about me at all?”
“Of course we did.”
“Don’t.”
“It is true.”
“You thought about yourself,” he says. “You thought about wanting her. You thought about having her. You thought about how long you could keep this quiet before I became inconvenient.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” My voice hardens despite my effort to contain it. “You may be angry. You may hate me for this. But you will not reduce what I feel for Julia to something cheap because you are hurt.”
He stares at me.
Then his mouth curves into an ugly smile.
“What you feel for her,” he repeats.
I say nothing.
“You love her.” His face drains of color.
The room goes still.
I do not answer quickly enough.
Dante staggers back half a step as if the silence shoved him.
“Oh, my God.”
“Dante.”
“You love her.”
“It is early,” I explain.
He laughs bitterly. “It is early. Listen to you. You sound like you are trying to convince yourself.”
“I care for her very deeply.”
“Lie.”
Dante’s eyes burn.
“Lie to yourself all you want,” he says. “But have the decency not to lie to my face.”
I hold his stare.
“Very well.” My voice lowers. “I love her.”
For a moment, there is nothing.
No sound.
No movement.
Then Dante’s face crumples with rage.
“You bastard.”
I accept that too.
“You absolute bastard.”
“I never intended to hurt you.”
“That makes me feel so much better.”
“I know it does not.”
“Stop being calm!” he shouts. “Stop standing there like I’m a problem you can wait out.”
“You are my son.”
“And she was my best friend!”
His voice breaks on the last word.
I take one step toward him before I can stop myself.
The punch catches me across the mouth.
Pain explodes through my jaw. My head snaps to the side. The force sends me back a step, and I taste blood immediately, hot and metallic against my tongue.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Dante stands in front of me, fist still clenched, chest heaving. Shock flashes across his face.
Then horror.
Then it vanishes beneath the hurt again.
I straighten slowly.
I do not touch my mouth. I do not raise a hand.
I only look at him.
His eyes widen, almost pleading now, as if he wants me to be angry. As if he needs me to give him something easier than my silence.
I cannot.
He is my son.
He hit me because I hurt him.
I will carry the mark.
His breathing turns ragged.
A drop of blood slips from the corner of my mouth. I feel it reach my chin and leave it there.
Dante looks at it.
For one terrible moment, he looks so damn young.
The baby I held through the night. The boy who clung to my neck after nightmares. The teenager who pretended he did not need anyone and always left his bedroom door cracked open anyway.
My son. My heart walking outside my body, standing in front of me with his hand shaking because I have made him feel betrayed in his own family.
But he doesn't need that right now. He needs to be angry at me.
Julia, however, doesn't deserve it.
“Julia cares about you,” I try one more time.
“Do not say her name to me,” he snaps.
I close my mouth.
Dante turns toward the door, then stops.
His reddening hand curls around the frame, gripping it hard.
For a moment, it seems like he's going to say something. Then he just walks out.
A moment later, the front door shuts hard.
Silence follows.
I stand in the middle of my study with blood in my mouth and my son’s words lodged in my chest.
For a long moment, I do nothing.
Then I move to the window.
Dante crosses the drive fast, shoulders rigid, head down. He gets into his car and pulls away too quickly, gravel spitting beneath the tires.
I remain where I am until the taillights disappear.
Only then do I lift my hand to my mouth.
My fingers come away red.
Marisa appears in the doorway, pale with worry.
“Signor Ricardo.”
“I am fine.”
She looks at the blood, then at my face.
I do not have the strength to make the lie convincing.
Her eyes soften.
“Should I bring ice?”
“No.”
“Ricardo.”
I close my eyes for a second.
“Please.”
The word stops her.
She nods and leaves me alone.
My phone is still on the desk.
Julia has not called.
Or perhaps she has, and I did not hear it.
I cross the room and pick it up.
No missed calls.
I stare at the screen for several seconds, thumb hovering over her name.
I don't know how much better or worse the confrontation between them was, but bad enough that she didn't call me after.
But I know my son. I know Julia. I know the wreckage between them is still fresh, and if I call now, she will hear the blood in my voice. She will blame herself for his pain, for mine, for a fracture none of us know how to mend yet.
I set the phone down.
For the first time in years, I do not know the next right move.
I only know the wrong ones.
Do not chase Dante.
Do not summon Julia into the middle of what he left behind.
Do not let hurt take action.
I sink slowly into the chair behind my desk.
My jaw throbs. My mouth tastes of blood. My house feels too quiet without my son in it; even his anger would be better than this emptiness.
I think of Mario in my office, his voice low.
Let her stand beside you.
I think of Julia in my arms this morning, soft and sleepy and trusting.
I think of Dante standing where she stood only hours ago, looking at me as if I had stolen something from him; something he might never get back.
My hand curls into a fist on the desk.
I can survive my son’s anger.
I deserve much of it.
What I do not know is whether he can survive the feeling that love made liars of us all.