I leaned back, exhaling. “So Dominic’s been having an affair with Isabella DeMarco for five years?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Where do his loyalties lie, I wonder? And how does Luke DeMarco play into this? This just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”
“Talk to Lucia. See if you can glean any information at all. She may not be aware herself, Salvatore.”
“I think she’s innocent.” No, I knew it. And this knowledge would only hurt her.
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more.”
“Thank you, Roman.”
I made one more call to check on Natalie, who had called in sick to work and was spending the day with Jacob at home. She knew my father was on his way, and although not pleased about it, she seemed reasonably calm and promised to call me once he’d left.
When I returned to the living room, Dr. Mooney was just packing up his things.
“Just keep it iced and wrapped. You’ll be fine in no time. I’ve already ordered crutches. They’ll be here hopefully within the next hour or two.”
“How long will I need those?” Lucia asked.
“Only as long as you feel pain when putting any weight on your leg. I don’t think long, a week or two.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mooney.” I extended my hand and shook his.
“You’re welcome, Salvatore.” He turned back to Lucia and shook her hand as well. “It was nice to meet you, my dear. Call if you need anything at all.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
Rainey walked Dr. Mooney out, and I took a seat beside Lucia.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you with my question, Lucia.”
“But you did, Salvatore. That’s the point. Ever hear the saying ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions?’”
“Let’s go sit by the pool before it gets too hot.”
“I said I don’t—”
Ignoring her, I lifted her into my arms and carried her out. Lucia simply sighed.
“Can you bring my lemonade at least?”
“Sure. Would you like something to eat?”
She gave me a cautious look. “I think I smelled cake.”
I had too. Rainey had been baking. “I’ll be right back.”
In the kitchen, I sliced two chunks of the still-warm cinnamon cake I found cooling on the counter and set them on a tray along with two fresh glasses of lemonade. Back outside, I handed one of the plates to Lucia and placed her lemonade on the table beside her lounge chair before taking the seat by hers.
“This is Rainey’s signature cake.” Not bothering with the fork, I picked up the fat chunk I’d sliced for myself and bit into it. “God, it’s delicious.”
“I’m going to get fat,” Lucia said through her mouthful.
“I’ll make sure you get enough exercise.”
She glanced at me from the corner of her eye, then returned her attention to the cake on her plate in her lap.
“We need to talk about last night.”
“I thought we had.”
“About what you overheard.”
Her wary gaze met mine. “She’s my sister, Salvatore.”
“Jacob was very afraid, Lucia. If Isabella had anything to do with that, I think it’s important I know.”
She rubbed her face with both hands then pushed her fingers into her hair and pulled at the roots. “I don’t know, Salvatore. What happened to that little boy, what Dominic did, was cruel. I hope to God my sister wasn’t involved in anything like that. The Izzy I knew wouldn’t be. She’d never hurt a child. And I know he wasn’t physically hurt, but taking him without his mom knowing? Freaking her out like that, and scaring the little boy? I just—”
She looked away and shook her head. When she turned back to me, her eyes glistened with tears.
“Thing is, I don’t know her anymore. I’ve shut everyone out for so long that I don’t even know who I am anymore. I thought this was black-and-white. I hated the Benedetti family. Period. But my sister involved in or even possibly orchestrating something like the kidnapping of a child?”
She shook her head again, her face lined with worry.
“She’s a mother herself. How…what’s happened to us?”
“Too much hate. Too much power,” I said. “Too much of a lust for blood and vengeance. War never makes friends out of enemies. The opposite. It solidifies that hate. The war between Benedetti and DeMarco may have been fought in our fathers’ time, but we inherit the hate, the bad blood. It doesn’t just go away. It carries down generation to generation.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You have every right to.”
“I don’t. You’re not like them, Salvatore.”
But I was. I had killed. I had taken. I had lived off blood money. I’d shed that very blood with my own two hands. Standing up to my father after whipping Lucia, though, and then today—walking away, not giving a shit about what he thought—was I changing? Was I finally growing out of my father’s shadow and casting my own?