The truth presses in on me from every direction, merciless and unrelenting.
If Elena is lying, then her betrayal cuts deeper than I ever imagined.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms as rage surges hot and blinding inside me, burning away any reason I had left and whatever restraint and mercy I may have eventually granted her.
I feel it crest in my chest, violent and uncontainable. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Elena.”
She flinches.
I gesture sharply toward the child with my chin, my chest heaving. “You think I don’t recognize myself when I see it?” Thewords taste like acid in my mouth, but I don’t stop. I can’t. “That boy isn’t his.”
Her head snaps back and forth in denial, frantic. “He is. I—I swear. Matteo and I… the night before he… we?—”
I turn on my heel before she can finish. I won’t listen to another lie. I won’t stand here while she rewrites the past to suit her survival. My boots strike the stone floor hard as I head for the door, my pulse roaring as my thoughts tear themselves apart.
I don’t know which possibility is worse—the idea of her sleeping with my brother behind my back, of sharing his bed while she sharedminein secret, or the possibility that she carriedmychild in her body, fled the country, and kept him from me for years while I buried the only family I had left.
When did she know? Before she helped her father escape? Before or after Matteo was murdered? Before or after she let me stand at my brother and father’s graves alone and believe I had lost everything?
The questions come endlessly, each one carving deeper into my heart.
I’m painfully aware of the irony, of the hypocrisy of my fury. Jealous over a woman my brother was meant to marry, enraged by a betrayal I am not innocent of either. I crossed that line first. I was the one who pulled her into my bed knowing exactly whose fiancée she was and refusing to care at the time.
I don’t pretend to be innocent in any of this either.
But knowing I share the blame does nothing to dull the fire in my veins.
If what I suspect is true, if she took my son from me, then there is no forgiveness left in this world.
Only consequences.
5
DANTE
Leo is the first to corner me in my room.
He does it the way he always does—without sound and without warning. One moment, I’m alone with my thoughts and a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting in my lap and the next, the door closes behind me with a soft click that barely disturbs the air.
He doesn’t announce himself. He never has. Leo has always preferred presence over noise, menace over spectacle.
It’s only when I feel him hovering just behind my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his body wash, that I realize I’m no longer alone.
The liquor burns its way down my throat as I take another long pull from the bottle, letting the heat settle in my chest. I’m already halfway through it just an hour in. The edges of the room blur just enough to dull the most intrusive thoughts but not enough to quiet them completely.
When my head finally lolls back against the couch, I squint up at him through half-lowered lids. He’s leaning over me slightlynow, arms crossed, one brow raised in familiar disapproval. There’s an unimpressed frown tugging at his mouth, the same one he’s worn since we were boys and he decided it was his job to keep me from self-destruction.
A horrible self-appointed position, in my opinion.
“You’re going to ruin good liquor over something like this?” he asks mildly.
I scoff and take another drink in answer.
Leo straightens, gaze flicking briefly to the bottle, then back to my face. He takes in the tension in my jaw, the way my hand tightens around the neck when it drops back into my lap, the fact that I haven’t bothered to turn on more than a single light in the room before settling on the couch permanently.
He’s always been good at reading what I don’t say. As annoying as I’ve found that trait to be over the years, it is very useful in situations like this.
“So,” he continues. “You think the boy is yours.”
