‘Roxanne turned up as he was leaving. He sort of pushed past her and knocked her over. She was upset—we were both upset. I helped her up and she started crying, so I comforted her…’ It was as if he were giving a police statement, his voice unnervingly even as he reeled off the appalling train of events, delivered brutal words in an impassive tone. ‘I told her I was sorry for all Luca was putting her through…’
It was Caitlyn whose throat was dry now, and she was grateful when he picked up her bottle of water and topped up her glass. She took a sip, but just about missed her mouth because her hands were trembling so much.
‘I started kissing her, telling her I would treat her so much better than Luca…Things were getting a bit out of hand, and then…’
‘Luca came back?’ Caitlyn finished for him.
‘Luca caught us.’
‘That’s when he hit you?’
‘He went crazy…said that I had always been the better one, the older one, the smarter one, that I had screwed up his life, that I had taken everything good from him and now I was taking the woman he loved, that I’d humiliated him over and over…’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, screwed his eyes closed as he relieved that hell. ‘He said quite a lot more than just that.’
‘I’m sure he did.’
‘Then he stormed off. And I went to the hospital to get stitched.’
Caitlyn watched, tears streaming down her face, as he gagged out an expletive and this strongest of men almost fell apart.
And for the first time he faced it.
As if a fist had gone into his stomach, he let out a shudder of breath, almost doubled up in agony—and he told her. Or did he? Because he truly didn’t know if he was talking it or living it again. At that point he wasn’t sitting with Caitlyn, he was back pacing in that hospital cubicle, a wad of gauze pressed to his cheek, so incredibly angry he was climbing the walls. He just wanted the hell out of there, wanted to get stitched so he could go and find Luca, to make things right, to fix his brother. Then everything had just faded into oblivion. Aghast, he’d watched as a stretcher whizzed past his cubicle. It was as if he was looking at himself in a mirror, and he’d seen the horror on his own face mistaken by a nurse, who’d pulled his curtain tightly closed. Only Lazzaro had opened it, striding into the resuscitation area despite the protests of the staff. Their angry shouts had been dim in his ears, theirs the shocked expressions as they’d looked down at the body they were working on and seen it was the mirror image of this intruder who had marched in. And he had seen the wretchedness in the doctors’ eyes as they’d realised he was his twin.
‘I’m so sorry.’
Paltry words that had been delivered by a doctor even before Antonia had arrived.
He hadn’t even needed a local anaesthetic when they’d sutured him—his whole body had been numb with pain as he’d lain on the hospital trolley and the needle had slid in and out of his flesh.
‘I’m so sorry.’
Paltry words that had been delivered hours later, as he’d held his brother’s cold blue hand, had stared at a face that might as well have been his—had felt as if it was his.
‘I knew he was dead the moment I saw him…’ The tirade that had spewed from his mouth abated a touch, and still Caitlyn listened. ‘I knew he was dead, and that nothing they were going to do would bring him back. It was over by the time Antonia arrived, and then my mother…’
‘Roxanne too?’ Caitlyn checked, and he nodded.
‘Antonia called her. She didn’t know at that point what had happened.’
‘But you told her?’
‘Roxanne did.’ Lazzaro let out a long breath. ‘She was hysterical. She said that we’d as good as killed him, that if I hadn’t come on to her, that if he hadn’t caught us…’ His skin was grey, the lines around his eyes so dark they looked as if they might have been pencilled in. ‘He came back, Caitlyn. God, he came back—and maybe he was going to get help. Maybe if we hadn’t been—’
‘Maybe he’d forgotten his car keys,’ Caitlyn snapped back, surprising even herself with her bitterness. But she was cross—cross with Luca, the Saint Luca Ranaldi he had somehow become, the man who in death had been excused his mistakes, exempted by his brother, by his family, for his appalling leading role in all of this—who’d had so much and been so careless, not just with himself, but with the happiness of those who’d loved him. ‘Maybe he’d come back to borrow some more money, or to tell you where to get off.’