The Sicilian's Bought Cinderella

Her eyes softened. She rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands together under her chin. ‘You were the reason I needed to find justification to leave. I knew I could never take you from him. Your father was a terrible husband but he was a wonderful father to you. And you adored him. When you fell over and hurt yourself, it was always him you would go to. When you had those nightmares when you were tiny, it was always him you called for. People thought I was a terrible mother for leaving you behind but I would have been a worse mother if I had taken you with me.’

Dante plucked a roll from the basket and pulled it apart with his fingers, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

He had always instinctively gone to his father when he’d been in pain or fear. From as far back as he could remember he and his father had been as close as a father and son could be.

‘Why didn’t he tell me about Orla? Why didn’t you tell me about her? Why all the secrecy?’

She sighed and reached for her wine. ‘That was your father’s choice and I had to respect his wishes. The mother didn’t want him in the child’s life. He could have fought for access but decided against it. He thought—and I agreed with him—that you had enough upheaval with me leaving without having to cope with the knowledge of a sister you would in all likelihood never meet. At the time it seemed the rational thing, the kind thing, to do.’

‘Why did he never tell me when I was old enough to understand?’

‘I don’t know. I think, and of co

urse this is only speculation, that he was afraid you would hate him for keeping it from you. You were the only person he ever truly loved. If it was not for you and having to raise you, I think his gambling problem would have got out of control a lot sooner than it did.’

Their first course was bought to them and then, for perhaps the first time in Dante’s life, he and his mother really talked—about the past, his mother’s life, her never-ending quest for a man who could make her happy.

He came to understand the choices she’d made, and that his father had made concerning him, had always been with the best of intentions. Hindsight might have proved those intentions to be faulty but they had done the best they could.

By the time they had finished their desserts and were sipping liqueur coffees he felt closer to her than he ever had before and it was with regret that he asked for the bill.

‘Dante...’ Tentatively, as if afraid he would shrug it off, she placed her hand on his. He let her. ‘I know I have made many mistakes as your mother but can I give you the wisdom of my experience?’

Curious as to what she had to say, he nodded.

‘I have married many times for many reasons and, yes, I admit financial security has always played a part in it, but I have always tried to love my husbands.’

He wanted to smile at her earnest way of admitting she was a gold-digger. His mother was nothing if not a character.

But he couldn’t smile. All the muscles in his face had frozen.

Dread beat deep and heavy within him.

He knew where she was leading with this.

‘Love is an elusive thing,’ she said earnestly. ‘It is very rare. When you find it, you have to grab hold of it and never let it go.’ Her hold on his hand tightened as if to emphasise her point. ‘Your Irish beauty... I don’t know what has gone wrong between you, but when I watched you with her at the wedding I could feel the love you have for each other.’

‘I am not in love with her.’ His denial was automatic. He’d been denying it every one of the eight days since she had flown back to Ireland.

Just because he had fought his hands not to call her did not mean anything. Just because he had woken every day with an ache in his heart that he couldn’t shift didn’t mean anything either.

They had shared an intense few days together that had ended with bilious, hateful words. And then she had gone.

His mother tilted her head.

Was that pity he saw in her eyes?

‘It was never love,’ he said. ‘It was a madness. That’s all. It’s over.’

She didn’t say anything further on the subject but he could see exactly what she left unsaid.

That he was lying to himself.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE TINY END-OF-TERRACE house had a run-down feel to it but no sense of neglect. Even through the pouring Irish rain lashing his hire car, Dante could see the well-tended small front garden.

It had been five days since he’d dined with his mother and received the answers he’d sought. Five days of turmoil and dawning reason followed by self-recrimination and loathing.