“So you decide to invade my most private space?”
“I didn’t know what this room was!” The words come out desperate. “I was just walking. I was trying to escape my own head, and I saw the photographs and I…”
I trail off because I don’t know how to finish that sentence honestly.
Why did I stay once I saw what this room was?
Why didn’t I leave immediately?
My eyes drift back to the photographs on the wall of the laughing boys at the beach, the teenagers with matching tattoos.
The desk frame of the young men at that barbecue looking so happy and whole.
“I saw the pictures,” I say quietly. “Of you and Marco. When you were kids.”
Luca goes very still.
“I know I shouldn’t have looked. I know this is private and none of my business.” I swallow hard. “But once I saw them, I-I couldn’t look away. You looked so…different. So happy.”
“Get out.” His voice is flat, emotionless.
This is going badly. “I’m sorry?—”
“I said‘get out.’”
But something in his tone isn’t quite right. It’s not rage I’m hearing.
It’s something else.
Pain, maybe.
Or fear that I’ve seen too much.
“Why?” The question escapes me before I can stop it, and I feel tears pool into my eyes. “Why do you hate me so much when I never did anything to you?”
He glares at me, his eyes narrowed into slits. “I’ve already told you. Your father?—”
“I know what my father did,” I interrupt, feeling tears track down my cheeks. “And I’m so, so angry at him. For his weakness. For his cowardice. But I’mnothim. And looking at those pictures, seeing how much you loved Marco…” I shrug helplessly. “I just wanted to understand.” The words burn in my throat. “I wanted to understand why you’re doing this. Why Marco mattered so much.”
Raw pain flashes across his face, so intense it takes my breath away.
For just a moment, the mask cracks completely and I see the broken man underneath.
The one who loved his cousin so deeply that losing him shattered something fundamental inside him.
Then the mask slams back into place, and he’s cold and unreachable again.
“Marco mattered because he was the only good thing in my world,” Luca says, his voice rough. “The only person who ever gave a damn about me as more than a weapon or a business asset. And your father took him away for a measly fifty thousand dollars.”
I want to tell him the truth.
The words are right there, pressing against my teeth, desperate to be free.
I know who murdered Marco. I have proof.
But fear locks my jaw shut.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper instead, because I don’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry for what happened to him. I’m sorry you lost him.”
