Ryan hadn’t had to, he supposed. That was the major difference between the two of them. Losing his father had been a lesson in mortality for Paolo, one that Ryan had never taken seriously despite watching comrades fall around him. Ryan had lived in a bubble of belief that he was free from impact no matter what he did.
And Paolo had perpetuated that belief by not challenging him on his betrayal of Lauren. Lauren’s asking for a divorce, questioning his fidelity, would have been Ryan’s first hint that he wasn’t as golden and untouchable as he’d come to believe. Thinking she was responsible for Ryan’s death was a burden Lauren didn’t deserve to bear. Paolo, the best friend, should have been the one to instill in Ryan that actions had consequences. If anyone was to blame for Ryan losing his life, it was Paolo. He should have made him see it was possible.
Instead he’d enabled Ryan to cheat on his wife, perpetuating Ryan’s belief that Lauren would never know and so wouldn’t be hurt by it. Perhaps Ryan had even operated under the certainty he would never be hurt by it.
Because his heart hadn’t been as deeply involved as his wife’s?
Disturbed, Paolo stroked his thumb on the cool black screen of Lauren’s phone. Ryan had loved Lauren, hadn’t he? Whenever Paolo had asked about her, his friend had always smiled with deep satisfaction. Smug, almost.
Frustrated, Paolo shrugged on his clean shirt and slid her phone into his pocket. He didn’t know why he kept it with him, just wanted the connection to her even though it was like wearing a badge of dishonor. His mood grew even more dour once he reached his aunt and uncle’s house. Isabella’s absence was noted by all and Vittorio was determined to make the most of it.
“What happened, Paolo? A spat over your dancing with Mrs. Bradley last night? I don’t blame Isabella. Mrs. Bradley’s a stunner. And not the woman I saw with our old friend in Berlin.”
“No?” Paolo said shortly, impatient with the way the Bradleys were overtaking every minute of his life.
“Definitely not.” Vittorio shook his head. “What kind of coglione deceives a woman like that?”
* * *
Lauren followed the dirty fingernail as it traced the train route on the map, listening carefully to broken French and Italian heavily laced with Spanish. The wind kept trying to pick up the map so she moved her empty espresso cup onto the corner. Its saucer clinked on the metal table of the al fresco café right before a screech of braking tires and a car horn scattered the nearby pigeons in a discordant mass of flapping wings and cooed protests.
As the birds cleared, Lauren saw Paolo leaving his car in the middle of the road, slamming the door as though it was a perfectly good parking space. The driver behind him shook his fist and shouted abuse.
“Go around,” Paolo barked in Italian, keeping his gaze fixed on Lauren. When he was close enough, he set his fists on the map and leaned low enough to be eye to eye with her. “What are you doing here?”
Despite his level tone, she could practically taste the antagonism rolling off him. He was furious and she had no idea why. She was the injured party.#p#????#e#
She sat back, repositioning her cheeky new hat over her shorn head so she could see him better. “Is that a philosophical question? Why am I on earth? Because I think it’s quite obvious I’m at this café for coffee and directions.”
His expression grew more dour, stirring an imaginary flock of birds in her belly. It took all her strength to hold his gaze when inside she was frantically rebuilding her self-worth. She could take acts of malice from jealous nobodies like her step-siblings, but Paolo’s dishonesty had burned like a dose of poison, spreading an ache to every corner of her body, leaving her distraught. She had thought she could trust him.
Through her haze of disillusionment, one festering question throbbed: why had he done it? Did he hate her that much?
She looked away, brows pleating. Why did she even want to trust him? She didn’t need him. She was self-sufficient.
If she kept telling herself that, she might even believe it.
“Directions to where?” he asked, scanning the map.
“Venice,” she murmured, unable to sound as enthused as she wanted to be. “Dino here tells me I should see it along with Rome, Naples, Pompeii... He started in Palermo.”
Paolo turned his head long enough to say bluntly to her companion, “Leave us,” before he lifted his Neanderthal knuckles off the map. Folding his arms, he ignored Lauren’s mouth as she hung it open at his audacity.
“Why are you here and not at the villa? You knew I was coming,” he said.