Page 160 of Ricardo

“Before?” he snaps, turning back. “Before what? Before you decided to sit me down like some poor idiot and break it to me gently?”

“I thought it would be best—”

“If he wasn't here?” he asks harshly. “Is that what you guys decided together?”

I flinch.

“When you and my father sat down and talked about how I would react.” His voice is shaking now, which is worse than the anger. “You decided what would be easier for me. What would make me less defensive. What would make me less of a problem.”

“That's not true. You are not a problem.”

“Then why did it take a week for you to tell me?” His eyes cut to mine. “And I know you better than you think. I know you didn't jump into bed with him. You obviously had feelings first, which you also didn’t tell me.”

I have no answer that helps.

“Dante, please. It’s not like that,” I say desperately.

His face goes pale beneath the anger.

He points toward the door, toward the city. “I brought you here.”

“I know.”

“I brought you into my family.”

“I know,” I say, practically in tears at the betrayal I can feel pumping off him.

“I told Mario to hire you. I vouched for you. I told them you were smart and loyal and trusting.” He spits out the last word. “I put you in my father’s life.”

My eyes sting.

“I know.”

“You know.” He repeats it with a bitter laugh. “You keep saying that like it fixes anything.”

“It doesn’t.”

“No, it really doesn’t.”

He starts pacing, crossing the living room in three long strides, then turning back. He looks too big for the room suddenly, too full of hurt to be contained by my little apartment and its careful furniture and untouched wine.

“My father,” he says again, quieter now. “Of all people, Julia.”

“I didn’t choose him to hurt you.”

“But you did anyway.”

The words slice through me.

I nod because I will not make him drag honesty out of me.

“Yes.”

He stops pacing.

Something in his expression breaks.

It would be easier if he only looked angry.