Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Tired.”
That had my eyes opening. “Really?”
“Yes, he’s tired. Why do you sound surprised? Between the kids, work and this mess you got yourself in, he doesn’t have the time to scratch his ass.” My face fell and guilt settled heavily in my gut while Marco sipped his coffee, but he shot me a knowing look. “I can see you have something on your mind. So, come on. Let’s have it.”
I held my coffee between both hands until prickles of heat burned my palms. “My sister…” Part of me did not want to know the answer. “Has she asked about me?”
Marco’s hard expression softened only momentarily when he confirmed my suspicions. “Once, I think.”
Once.
Wow. I tried not feel betrayed, but it was kind of hard not to.
I remained silent for a while, processing that little tidbit and after the hurt turned from a sharp stab to a dull throb, I was slow to speak. “I think I was about twelve years old when I first noticed it. Before our mom died, while Vincenza was out at track meets or extracurriculars, she would take me to the mall with her and whenever we were ready to check out, I would look over at the candy and beg my mom to get me something sweet. She almost always said yes. But I could never get myself something without getting something for my sister too.” My brow crinkled in thought. “I remember Vincenza coming home one day and walking into the house with a small white bag. She reached inside and took out a double choc sundae and I innocently asked, ‘Hey, did you get one for me?’ and she shrugged and replied, ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking of you.’” My vision blurred. I blinked it away. “I know it’s stupid…” I laughed softly to cover the lump in my throat, but I felt awfully sad when I explained, “It’s become more evident as the years pass.” I looked down into my mug. “It’s a bitter pill to swallow knowing you love somebody more than they’ll ever love you.”
Marco’s lip curled. “That story doesn’t surprise me. Your sister is one of the most self-centered people I have ever met. She’s a textbook narcissist.”
I rolled my eyes but there was no heat behind it. “Well, of course, you’re going to say that. We’re on opposite ends of a blood feud. And, let’s be honest, Vincenza and Ettore will never find common ground. That’s a burned bridge that will ever be mended.”
Marco conceded with a nod, “Understandable, given their history. Given what happened.”
“Yeah,” I uttered through an exhale. “Vincenza hates Ettore.”
Marco’s burst of bitter laughter had me blinking over at him. When he saw I wasn’t kidding, his brows rose and he said, “The only person she should hate is herself.”
Pardon me? A moment of confusion had me silent. “What do you mean?”
“Well, because of what happened that night,” he said, as if it explained everything.
The way he looked at me then caused another brief pause.
Vincenza may have been self-absorbed, but where I may have felt numb over what happened with our father, I had her back on this one. My sister was allowed to feel angry. We were entitled to hurt.
My brows dipped as I relayed the most important part of that painful story. “Ettore shot my father. He killed him. Why should Vincenza feel anything other than hatred for him?”
“Because of… what she did.” I sat there on the step, looking up at him and we wore matching expressions of resentment. After a while, a look of confusion crossed Marco’s features and he said, “You don’t know?”
I didn’t know what it was, but the way he said it had a solid sense of trepidation tightening across my chest. My heart beat slowed. I barely had the strength to ask the quiet but dreaded question, “Know what?”
It didn’t take a genius to see the moment he realized he’d said too much, and with that, Marco bailed. He stood tall, handed me his half full mug and opened the front door. “This is a family matter and one you should discuss with your sister when you get the chance.” He ushed me inside, but before he closed the front door, he seemed to linger, hesitating. He shook his head, knowing he shouldn’t be saying what he was about to, but was compelled to add, “You never thought about it?”
“Thought about what?” came my bewildered response.
He licked his lips and said, “After your father’s death, your family lost a seat at the high table and Ettore walked free without punishment. There was no retribution. Your uncle never sought revenge. And you never stopped to think why?”
I’d heard the story countless times. It was how my sister learned to manipulate me. My father was murdered in cold blood.
I swallowed hard as my temple began to throb.