“I’ve known that as long as you have,” I said. “I have no intentions of disregarding that directive.”
“For which reason?” Angelo asked.
I tended to keep my head down and focused on something else when my father was talking to me, but when he asked that confusing question, I had no choice but to look up. “I’m sorry?”
“For which reason would you not disregard that directive?” he repeated. “What is your specific reasoning for following the directive?”
“I don’t mean to inspire frustration, father, but I’m not sure what you’re trying to ask,” I said. “I follow the directive because you gave it to me. Because repeatedly you’ve impressed upon me the importance of following your orders to the letter.”
“Your eyes have always followed Lucia,” my father said. “If it weren’t for my order to leave her to your brother, would you try for her hand?”
I looked into my father’s eyes, a painful reflection of my own, and tried to discern what his endgame was with his questions. He’d certainly goaded me into conversations and interactions before so that he could turn around and punish me for what he’d purposefully elicited from me, but our current situation didn’t seem to be going there. He seemed truly curious for the answer, and in twenty-seven years of life, my father had never shown that much interest in me or how I felt.
I just didn’t know if lying or being honest would garner better results, so I opted for a half-truth. “I have no way of knowing what I’d get from requesting her hand because I’ve always kept my distance. It’s difficult for me to speculate, but it would be difficult not to consider.”
Angelo stared down at me with a heightened curiosity for a few, year-long minutes, then without saying any other words, he turned around, and walked out.
In the past, my father’s few times disregarding me entirely, lasted a week if I was lucky. After not talking to or punishing me for that long, the bug would bite him, and he'd trap me in some situation or another and we’d be right back to normal. Ever since that conversation about Lucia, however, my father had been keeping a distance from me for months. I stopped keeping track after about three months when my freshest wounds were finally fading scars against my tarnished skin. I didn’t want to convince myself that things weren’t going to go back to how they had been, but after that long, I was starting to think I might be free.
So as not to rock the boat at all, I kept my head down. Occasionally, my father would send word that he wanted me to complete some task or stand guard over one of his messes, but he otherwise stayed away. I continued to exchange letters with Philippa in secret and supported her efforts to improve her writing even further by securing books on the trade to pass her when I could. When my siblings would hear me out, I’d talk to them, though they made it very clear they wouldn’t listen to me on the subject of my father, so I strayed far from it.
Then the day came that everything changed.
My father came up to my room early in the morning and knocked on the door. I was barely out of bed, used to eating meals in my room and not having to jump right up, but I threw on some clothes and answered the door.
“Father,” I said with shock. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I wanted you to come down to breakfast this morning,” he said. “Eight o’clock sharp.”
“With… the family?” I said.
He nodded. “Of course. You’re a Cavetti as well, you should be eating with us like one.”
To say that I was astounded would be an understatement. Part of me wanted to question it, but it was the first time since Romeo was born that my father did anything to suggest I was actually part of the family. “Okay.”
“Good. I’ll see you soon,” he said, then he turned and walked away.
When he left, I quickly donned a nice suit, brushed my hair back, and made sure I was clean and groomed for my first ever meal with my entire family. I slid my cell phone into my pocket and walked out of the door, almost directly into Philippa.
“Oh,” she scuttled backward a bit, and then when his eyes focused on me, they drifted up and down my form. “You look nice.”
For all intents and purposes, Philippa was my best friend. She was the only person under my father’s roof that saw me before she saw anyone else. She treated me like a person, and on top of the things we had in common, she was a bright light in Angelo Cavetti’s incredibly dark world.
She was much different from the little girl I’d saved over ten years ago. Though her height had maxed out at around five and a half feet, she continued to get more and more beautiful with each passing day. Her cheeks were rosy and she continued to let her thin, light brown hair grow well past her waist. Adulthood had been good to her, filling out her curves, and her quiet voice, which was a little bolder with me, was comforting, like a song that calmed someone when they were stressed. She knew everything about me.
“My father invited me down for breakfast with my family,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “What? Why?”
I snickered. “I’m wondering the same thing. He wasn’t forthcoming, so I suppose I’ll figure it out when I get down there.”
A little bit of fear registered in her expression. “You don’t think he’ll hurt you, do you? In front of your family?”
“No. For some reason, I’m fairly confident whatever he’s up to is much larger than his favorite pastime.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll come by during my break to make sure everything is okay,” Philippa replied.
“I’d like that. I’ll need to discuss what I learned with someone,” I said, then with no one looking, I pulled her into a quick hug. “I’ll see you later.”
