Julia
Chapter Twenty Three
Ricardo’s mouth is split.
It is the first thing I see when I walk into his study where Marisa directed me, even though he turns his head slightly as if that will make it less obvious.
The skin at the corner of his lower lip is swollen, darkening already.
There is a faint smear of red near his jaw that he missed when he tried to wipe the blood away.
My chest tightens so hard I have to stop just inside the doorway.
“Julia,” he says.
His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse.
There is a towel with ice sitting on the desk that I suspect is Marisa's work.
Marisa stands near the desk with a small bowl of ice wrapped in a towel. Her expression before she walks out of the room is pinched with worry, and when her eyes flick to mine, I can tell she knows more than she wants to know.
For a moment, I do not move.
Ricardo is standing near the window in shirtsleeves, his tie gone, the top button of his shirt undone.
For the first time, except when we're in bed, he looks uncomposed.
There's tension in his shoulders. And I know without him even telling me that Dante was here, furious enough and hurt enough to hit him. To hit his own father.
And it’s my fault.
I press my fingers to my lips.
“Oh, God.”
I walk across the room toward him, eyes burning. I lift a trembling hand toward his face, then stop before I touch him.
His gaze softens.
“It looks worse than it is.”
“That is such a ridiculous thing to say.”
“I am all right.”
“You are bleeding.”
“Barely.”
“Dante punched you.”
He looks back out the window. “Yes.”
The word is too calm for my liking.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
He catches it out of the corner of his eye and turns back to me.
“Cuore mio,” he says softly.
“No.” I pull my hand back and wipe at my face. “Don’t. Please don’t be kind to me right now.”
“I have no interest in being cruel.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
He says nothing.
I look away because if he keeps looking at me like that, I will fall apart, and I have already done enough falling apart tonight.
Dante’s face keeps flashing in my mind. The look of anger and hurt. The way he looked at me before walking out. The door closing between us.
“I ruined it,” I whisper.
Ricardo’s brows draw together. “You did not ruin anything.”
“I did.” My voice shakes. “I knew he would be angry, but I thought if I told him myself, if I was honest with him, if I gave him the truth before he found it somewhere else—”
“You did the right thing.”
“He left.”
“He needed distance.”
“He said he couldn’t look at me.”
Ricardo’s jaw tightens, and then he winces almost imperceptibly when the movement pulls at the split in his lip.
That tiny wince does something to me.
I step closer and take the towel-wrapped ice from the desk.
“Sit down.”
His eyes flick to mine.
“Julia—”
“Sit.”
For one second, I think he will argue.
Then, perhaps wisely, he sits in the leather chair near the window.
I stand in front of him and press the ice gently to his mouth. His hand rises as if to take it from me, but I glare at him, and he lets it fall back to the arm of the chair.
“Dante will come around,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know my son.”
“So do I.”
“Yes,” he says. “You do.”
The quiet agreement hurts.
I look down at the towel in my hand, at the way my fingers are curled around it too tightly.
“I already lost him once,” I say.
“No, you didn’t,” he says quietly.
Ricardo’s expression stills.
“I disappeared from his life when I was with Harrison,” I insist. “I let that happen. I let myself become someone who stopped answering messages, stopped calling back, stopped being available. And Dante let me come back anyway. He opened the door like I hadn’t left him standing on the other side of it for years. ”
My eyes sting again.
“I don’t know if he’ll forgive me twice.”
Ricardo’s hand closes lightly around my wrist.
“He loves you.”
“Please don’t.”
His thumb stills.
“I cannot talk about that anymore,” I say. “I can’t. If I do, I’m going to start crying again, and I am so tired of crying tonight.”
He studies me for a moment, then releases my wrist.
“All right.”
I breathe in slowly and look at his mouth again.
“I can't believe he hit you.” Then my sadness begins to sharpen into something else. “I can't believe you just let him.”
Ricardo’s gaze does not change, but I feel the shift in him.
“He is my son.”
The answer seems so simple, but I know it's not. He seems to realize that I realize that.
“It was one punch,” he says.
“That does not make it acceptable.”
“I did not say it was acceptable.”
“It seems like you did nothing.”
“What was I supposed to do? Hit him back?”
I lower the ice.
“That's not what I mean. And there's a lot more you can do aside from that.”
“What would you have had me do?”
“I don’t know.” My voice rises before I can stop it. “Say something. Stop him. Tell him he crossed a line.”
There is a flicker in his expression.
There is more to it than just that.
I feel it without him saying a word.
“What?” I ask.
He looks toward the window.
“Dante has had a great deal taken from him.”
My anger pauses in the wake of his words.
“I know that.”
“No,” Ricardo says softly. “You don't know all.”
I wait, but he does not continue.
Of course he does not.
Ricardo Conti can tell a man he will die with less hesitation than he can speak honestly about pain.
“Then tell me the rest.”
His gaze returns to mine. “It is not time for that now.”
“I am not asking for details you have no right to give, Ricardo,” I say exasperated. “I am asking why you think you deserve this.”
He does not answer.
My chest tightens again, but this time with frustration.
“Ricardo.”
“He was born into circumstances he did not choose,” he says at last. “He paid for decisions I made. He grew up with absences I could not explain to him.”
I stare at him.
Dante’s mother.
I know, suddenly, as clearly as if he said her name.
Ricardo is talking about Dante's mother.
In all the time I've known Dante, the only thing he's ever told me is that he's never met his mother, and it’s due to their lifestyle. His father made that decision, and that was that.
Dante has always held resentment because of that, but he has understood it, having grown up in this life. Which is why he's never questioned it.
But Ricardo's tone tells me that there is more to it than that.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
For the first time, Ricardo just looks tired.
“I have been hard on Dante when I needed to be,” he says. “But I will not strike simply because he strikes first.”
My anger returns, hot and immediate.
“That sounds awfully noble.”
His eyes narrow.
“It also sounds like an excuse.”
“Careful.”
“No.” I drop the towel onto the desk beside him.
“He is grown, Ricardo. He is a grown man.
He is allowed to be hurt. He is allowed to be angry.
He is allowed to hate both of us if that is what he feels.
But he does not get to punch his father and have you make excuses for him.
That's just insulting, and he would agree if he knew.”
Ricardo stands slowly.
The movement brings him close enough that I have to tip my head back to keep looking at him.
“You do not understand everything between me and my son.”
“It seems your son doesn't understand everything between you and your son,” I say. “But I understand enough to know you are babying him.”
His face hardens.
For a second, I think I have gone too far.
Then I realize I do not care.
“Dante would be furious if he knew you were treating him like this,” I say. “He would hate it.”
Ricardo says nothing.
“You think you’re honoring his pain by letting him do whatever he needs to do with it. But that is not respect. That is guilt.”
His jaw flexes.
The split in his lip opens again, a thin line of red appearing at the corner.
“I know he feels betrayed, but we've done nothing wrong. He crossed a line,” I say, quieter now. “And if you love him, you should tell him that.”
Ricardo’s gaze holds mine.
“I do love him.”
“I know.”
“You think I do not know where the line is?”
“I think you know exactly where it is. I think you chose to stand on the wrong side of it because you believe you owe him for some reason.”
The silence after that is heavy.
Ricardo looks at me for a long moment, and beneath the anger I see something exposed. Something old. Something I may have no right to touch, but have touched anyway.
“You are very brave tonight,” he says.
“No.” My voice shakes. “I am scared and angry and tired, and I love Dante too much to pretend what he did was fine because he is hurting.”
Ricardo’s expression changes, softens. He reaches for me, then stops himself.
The restraint nearly undoes me.
“I know,” he says.
My breath shudders.
“And I know you love him,” I continue. “That is why I am saying this to you. Because one day he is going to come back, and if you let this sit between you like it was acceptable, it will rot. He needs his father more than he needs a martyr.”
Ricardo looks away.
Again, for the second time tonight, I notice just how tired he looks.