The opposition Sandro had only subconsciously acknowledged in his cousin last year was flagrant now. Leaving Octavia in London had given them all breathing space, but it had been a mistake. Sandro wouldn’t abandon her again and it was a decision that had less to do with defending his right to his heritage and more to do with how precarious his marriage was. If Giacomo and the rest of the family made these next few weeks difficult enough, he could lose Octavia and he simply refused to.
For the millionth time in the past four weeks, he wished he could sweep her into their bed, make love to her and reforge the connection they needed. Instead, he had to watch her fingers twitch nervously under his touch and her bottom lip catch between her teeth.
How did one earn a woman’s trust if not by demonstrating that even though he was strong enough to overpower her, he would only ever use his agility and strength to pleasure and protect her?
“What happened when your father died?” she asked, unexpectedly shaking him out of his rumination. “Did your uncle not challenge your right to command then?”
The memory of that dark time rose quick and fast to strike his heart like a rusted iron blade. He sat back, dropping her hand and trying to close the topic as swiftly and bluntly as he could.
“He didn’t have to. He was put in charge as a provision in the directorship. I was too young and too trapped in grief to properly take in the politics or legalities. Plus, I felt so guilty I refused to even train for the position, so he dismissed me as a threat. It was years before I considered it, even longer before I was ready to usurp him.”
He cut himself off as he realized he’d said too much.
Octavia cocked her head in curiosity. “What do you mean you refused? Why did you feel guilty?”
He didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t revisit the past without self-hatred overtaking him. His grandfather was the one who had insisted he assume the role, pushing and testing and guiding, telling him he owed it to his father to care and provide for the family the way his father would have done if he’d lived.
Alessandro flinched as his crisis of faith crept up to revisit him.
In light of all they were going through, did he deserve to oversee the family fortune? Had he caused this fissure in the family by marrying her instead of allowing Primo to do it?
How would Octavia see his actions? Would she side with his grandfather’s view that he owed it to his father to shoulder the responsibility? Or with his own view that he was unworthy? Or with Giacomo’s dismissal that he was unpredictable.
Unfit.
“We were at a festival,” he said, rubbing suddenly chilly hands on his thighs. He cleared the huskiness from his voice. “I was twelve. You know that. I had a fight. It was a stupid argument between a pair of boys wanting to test each other. You understand what I mean? Hormones and immaturity. Bravado. Nothing more. But it felt like everything at the time.”
That was always the part that bothered him most: how quickly his fuse had lit and how blindly he’d acted.
“I didn’t even know him,” he said, berating himself all over again as he went back to that day, with its smell of dust and the heat off the buildings and sidewalks, even though the sun was down. The jarring music, the din of the crowd, the aroma of cooking thick on the air, it was all imprinted on him. “I took offense to something he said about my sister and stood up for her. We began to scrap. There would have been no harm beyond a pair of bloody noses. There were police there to keep the peace and one blew his whistle. That made my father look up from across the street. He was with some friends and had had a few drinks. He wasn’t drunk, just tipsy enough to react without thinking. He stepped off the sidewalk to come across and stop me, but he didn’t look. A car hit him and he was killed instantly.”
“Oh, Sandro,” she gasped, hand coming up to cover her mouth, as shocked as the entire street had been with the abruptness of it.
Her eyes held deep compassion, which wasn’t easy to bear when he expected, even wanted, recrimination. But he’d traveled this road many times with his grandfather. He had come to terms with his guilt.
Mostly.
He stood, restless, trying to shake off the darkness.
* * *
Sandro moved into the sitting room and stood over the boy who carried his father’s blood as well as his name.
Octavia gave him a moment as she took stock herself. Her husband was such a confident man. She never would have guessed he carried such a terrible burden on his conscience.
Following him, she saw the sun was beginning to angle across to Lorenzo’s cot. She closed the doors and curtains, dimming the room.
“Is that why your uncle continues to challenge you?” she asked gently. “He holds you responsible for his brother’s death?”