The Italian

I take the stairs two at a time, eventually finding him in his wardrobe slamming things around.

I march in. “You know what?” I snap. “You’re a judgmental bastard, and a fucking hypocrite.” I storm into the bathroom. “Do not be so rude to people in my house!” I yell as I slam the door. I turn the shower on, take my shirt off, and the bathroom door bangs open.

“How the fuck am I a hypocrite?” he growls.

“Are you kidding me?” I throw my hands up in disgust. “Was that her? Your dad’s mistress? Was that her?”

He glares at me, and I know for certain it was.

“So, let me get this straight,” I sneer. “You hate her for being a mistress, when not three fucking weeks ago you asked the same thing of me?”

“That’s different.”

“It’s exactly the same.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You think there’s one set of rules for you, and one set for everyone else, and quite frankly, this spoilt brat attitude you have going on is fucking pathetic.”

“Fucking pathetic?” he gasps.

“You wanted me on the side.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.” I get under the hot water, and then I remember something. “And why didn’t you tell me that you were sleeping with Sophia? I felt like a fucking idiot downstairs before.”

He trips on the bathmat and kicks it with force across the bathroom. “Fuck off.” He snarls to it.

I rub the soap across my shoulders. “How about this? Before you throw a tantrum and start being a rude prick, you stop and think about how you treat people around you, Enrico?”

The veins are popping out of his forehead now. “Do not dare tell me how to treat people in my own fucking house, Olivia.”

“This is supposed to be my house, too.” I lose the last of my patience. “Angelina deserves your respect. Your father did what he thought he had to do.” I wash my arms with vigor. “I don’t know why you’re taking this so personally.”

His eyes bulge. “You don’t know why I am taking this so personally?” he yells. “You want to know why I came back to you, Olivia?”

I roll my eyes, unaffected or intimidated by his angry outburst. So dramatic.

“Let me tell you right now, it wasn’t because I wanted to marry an Australian.” His face is furious. “I still don’t want to do that.”

What the hell?

“Then don’t!” I scream. I hurl a bar of soap at him. Good God, he’s a bastard. “Just get out.”

“I came back to you because, if I were to marry another woman and had c

hildren with her…” He pauses, trying to calm himself down enough to say what he wants to say. “I knew that every time I would look at those kids, I would only see the reasons why I can’t be with you.” His nostrils flare. “And I would fucking despise my own flesh and blood,” he whispers.

Oh…

My eyes fill with tears.

“So, excuse me for being devastated,” he blinks away his own tears, “for now knowing that that’s how my father saw me.” His voice cracks, betraying him. “I was the reason he couldn’t have the life he wanted.” He hits his chest. “I was the reason he wasn’t happy. I am the Italian child he was forced to have.”

My heart drops.

Seeing such a powerful man reduced to feeling like an insignificant child.