Page 177 of Ricardo

“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.

Chapter Twenty Four

Ricardo

“Dante has had a difficult life,” I say.

Julia is quiet for a moment.

Then her gaze moves around the study. The carved shelves. The leather chairs. The antique desk that belonged to my father before it belonged to me. I had it shipped here after he died and we moved to Chicago.

There is old expensive art on the walls, a thick rug beneath her feet. The view beyond the windows, a gated drive and old money made newer by blood and patience.

When she looks back at me, there is a faint challenge in her eyes.

I give her a twisted smile. “You of all people know better than to look at expensive walls and assume a child was happy inside them.”

Her expression shifts into one of hurt.

A direct hit. I regret it immediately, but she does not flinch away from it.

“No,” she says quietly. “I know that very well.” Then her chin lifts. “But having a loving father helps.”

My jaw tightens.

My lip throbs at the reminder.

Julia folds her arms, but there is nothing cold in it. She is upset. Tired. Frightened, perhaps. Angry with me because anger is easier than the fear that Dante may not forgive her.

I understand that.

I also understand she is not entirely wrong.

“You think I am too forgiving of him,” I say.