CHAPTER 22
The entire boat ride back to the hotel, Enrico pondered when and how to tell Kate he was the Lucchesi family capo. The best time would be on the trip back to the lake. They’d be trapped in the car together; she wouldn’t be able to run out on him. He’d have plenty of time to explain; she’d have plenty of time to think. And if it went wrong… well, at least he could control the situation. He’d need to talk to Ruggero in advance. He couldn’t pull the trigger himself.
Damn it all, who did he think he was fooling? He couldn’t kill her, and he couldn’t ask Ruggero to do it either. No matter what Don Battista said. No matter if it cost him his own life. He simply could not do it.
He had to send Kate home, didn’t he? But then, if Carlo went after her and killed her, everything he’d done—taking her under his protection, breaking the truce, violating his vows to the family—all of it would have been for nothing. And considering Dom had no doubt informed Carlo of his choice regarding Delfina, it was certain Carlo would want his revenge on Kate.
He had to take the risk, had to tell her, had to make her understand.
It was the only way.
Enrico hardly noticed what Kate said during the boat trip. He didn’t recall when she stopped talking either. He only knew when they were back in the room that it was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Do not try to hide it from me. I know you by now.”
She let out a skeptical sound. “Not as well as you think.”
“What do you mean?” What had he missed?
“I know you were talking to Vittorio about our future together, but I can’t stay.”
His senses all jumped to high alert. “What is this about?”
She looked away. “You don’t love me. You still love her.” Her voice was soft.
“That is not entirely true. I do love you. But there is room in my heart for her as well.”
Kate turned eyes like ice chips on him. “That is hardly a ringing endorsement. Besides, if you loved me, you would trust me. And you would tell me your big secret.”
Damn it—couldn’t she wait a little longer? He couldn’t tell her here; what if she got hysterical? “That has nothing to do with trusting you. There is a lot more at stake.”
“So you say. If you loved me, you would tell me.”
“I will tell you. Very soon. Please trust me.”
She looked at the tiled floor. “There’s no point to this anyway. I don’t love you, Enrico.”
A chill swept him up and down, and his ears filled with white noise. “What?”
“I told you from the start, this was just about fun.” She crossed her arms.
“But it is more than that now.” At least it is for me.
She closed her eyes. “I only slept with you to get revenge on Vince.” He thought he detected a quaver to her voice.
She is lying. She has to be. “That is not true.”
“I’m a vindictive person. You’ve seen how far I would go to hurt Vince. I shot him, for God’s sake!”
What is wrong with her? “If that were true, if that were all of it, then why have you continued sleeping with me?” His voice was too loud; he was almost shouting.
She hunched her shoulders. In the smallest voice, she said, “I was terrified of Carlo.”
“You thought I would not protect you if we were not sleeping together?”
When she nodded, it was a knife to the gut. “You think so very little of me?” His voice shook and he hated the sound of it, wishing he’d said nothing.
She started to nod again, then she shook her head. She looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. He wanted to go to her, but he was about to cry himself, and he didn’t want her to see that. He headed for the bathroom, hearing her break into sobs, the sound piercing him.
Enrico shut the door and took a breath, pressing his palms into his eyes. He had to get control of himself. He couldn’t fall apart the way he had when Toni died. The stakes were too high now; he couldn’t afford to drink himself into oblivion for weeks on end. Yes, Kate had just cut his heart out. But no one else could know. He’d have to bury that sorrow; he’d have to dig its grave deep.
When he thought he could look at her again, he took a box of tissues to her. At the sight of her tears, his eyes grew hot. He wasn’t as strong as he’d thought. “Here,” he said, shoving the box at her in his haste to get away. Fumbling with the sliding door, he stepped onto the terrace. Madonna. How was he going to bear this?
He was staring at the sea when he heard her behind him. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“I am sorry too. I wish you had been honest with me.”
“I was. I told you from the beginning how I felt.”
He started to object, but it was true. “Then I wish you had not kissed me the day of the attack. I wish you had not been waiting for me that night in the study.” He couldn’t stand how raw his voice sounded.
She touched him on the forearm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
How dare she play stupid. He pinned her with his eyes. “You had to know what would happen. You had to know you were encouraging me.” He stopped himself from saying more, wishing that he could be neutral, that he could somehow bear this without letting her know she’d lacerated him to the core.
“I thought…” She let her hand drop away. “I thought for a while maybe things could work between us.”
The tentativeness in her voice gave him hope. He took her by the shoulders. “They still can. If you trust me.”
“I can’t. I just can’t.”
Anger frothed up in him, hot and dark, and he let go of her abruptly. How could she do this to him? How could she make him love her, how could she listen to him pour out his heart? How could she do all that, and then push him away?
She tried to touch him again and he jerked away. It took everything he had not to yell. “Leave me. I need a while to myself.”
He heard her breath catch and then the scuffing of her shoes as she walked away. When the door to their room closed behind her, a strangled sound, halfway between a sob and a moan, forced its way out of his constricted throat. He pressed a fist to his mouth. He would not cry. He would not mourn.
He’d leaned on the edge of the terrace for countless minutes, maybe hours, his eyes staring at the water but not seeing it, the late afternoon sun hitting his face, when he saw Kate shuffle by below, wiping her eyes, the damn tissue box still clutched to her chest.
He looked away from the gleam of her auburn hair and the flutter of her flowered dress in the wind, but like a magnet, she drew his eyes back. He watched her for a while, his anger receding. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be suffering, would she? Hope flared in his chest, a sun in miniature, warming him from the inside out. She did love him.
He wanted to be angry with her, but this was his fault entirely. He’d told her he loved her, but he hadn’t shown her that love. He’d helped her, yes, but he hadn’t trusted her, not in the way that most mattered. Was it any wonder she was pulling away?
He needed to show her that he loved her more than he loved anyone else, including himself. That he trusted her. He’d have to tell her everything. Everything that could send him to prison.
And he’d have to introduce her to his father, so she’d understand how this life could be her death. If she was going to stay with him, he wanted her to do it with wide open eyes.
He pulled out his mobile phone and the number Don Battista had given him. His hand shook so much he had to punch in the numbers twice.
He hadn’t seen his father in over ten years. Only God knew if he’d find anything other than a ruin.