“Please, Nico.” Honora’s lovely face looked scared. “Just give her a chance. I’m trying to help you. I love you.”
Help. Yes, help him into public humiliation. Love. Love him into an early grave. He felt his chest tighten and squeeze and suddenly remembered how his father had keeled over of a heart attack last Christmas without warning.
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You killed him! his stepmother had screamed at Nico at the funeral. I hope you’re proud of what you’ve done, you awful, awful boy!
And now they were facing each other in person for only the third time in their lives. The first time had been on a street in Rome, when he was seven years old. His mother had pushed him forward, both of them hungry, and he’d been wearing clothes that were too small.
Please, Arnaldo, this is your son. Help us.
His stepmother, wearing her sleek designer clothes, had grabbed his father’s arm and gasped, No. I can’t bear it. Tell me it’s a lie.
His father had said coldly, It’s a lie.
Tension pulsed through Nico’s body as he faced his stepmother. This was supposed to be a party. A celebration. Around the elegant ballroom, all his so-called friends, men in tuxedos and the women in shimmering gowns, were watching and listening with interest, the better to gossip about later.
He had to pull it together.
With an intake of breath, Nico walked forward, his traitorous wife trailing behind him. His guests parted, creating a path between him and the elderly Italian woman.
He stopped in front of her.
“Buonasera, signora,” he said with a coolly courteous nod. “Welcome to my home.”
Lifting her chin, his stepmother replied in the same cool tone, “Thank you for inviting me.”
But you weren’t invited, Nico raged inside. He forced himself to smile, to take his wife’s hand. “We are so glad you could come.”
Egidia stood in front of him in her dated gown, her white hair carefully done, and her bright coral lipstick not quite straight on her feathered lips. She drew herself to her full height, which wasn’t much, and looked at him, her forehead creased.
Then she sucked in her breath. Her eyes roamed his face, then filled with tears.
“You do look like him,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it. But you look like Arnaldo when he was young.” Her wrinkled face crumpled, as if she were about to cry. “All this time I never realized...” She choked out, “Villa Caracciola should be yours. I will no longer fight it. You are his son. You are.”
The old lady moved forward, as if to embrace him. Nico tried to step back, holding up his flute of sparkling water like a shield. But it was not enough.
“Which means...” Lifting up on her tiptoes, she threw her arms around him with a sob. “You are mine...”
Gasps and exclamations rippled through the crowd. Some of the guests had tears in their eyes, obviously enjoying the scene, as if it were some melodrama on television, the reprobate prodigal son being welcomed with open arms by his dead father’s widow.
Looking around him, at the way his party had been taken hostage, and his whole life story revealed to people who might somehow use it against him someday, Nico tried to smile and pretend he was calm and pleased. But inside, he was seething with rage greater than he’d ever known. He felt embarrassed, angry, ashamed.
And looking at his beaming wife beside him—so beautiful, so deceitful—he knew just who was to blame.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AGAINST ALL ODDS, she’d succeeded.
As Honora watched her husband and his elderly stepmother embrace, tears filled her eyes.
She’d taken a terrifying gamble, inviting the woman here, praying that he could finally forgive her and let go of the resentment and anger poisoning his soul. She’d been so scared that Nico would refuse, that he’d make a scene and toss Egidia from the house, and that he would hate Honora for what she’d done. But she’d been brave enough to risk it anyway.
And this was her reward.
“I’ll tell my lawyers the Villa Caracciola should be yours,” Egidia Caracciola said tearfully.
“Thank you,” Nico said. Looking around at his guests, he added, “I will, of course, pay you the estate’s full value.”