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“Your—” Carmine starts, confused, but I know before Dante moves.
I know that Dante revealing our secret does not bode well for Carmine Anthony Carluccio, Senior.
And that’s confirmed when Dante takes a step forward, wrapping his hand around his father’s throat, tightening, cutting off his air supply.
Carmine’s eyes bug then shift to mine.
And there I see it.
He’s begging for me to help him.
Ironic, really.
He now sees the feral anger and aggression that’s confined to Dante’s eyes.
Funny how in his time of need, he turns to the woman he tried to destroy minutes before.
“Delilah, go to your room,” Dante says, his voice low and even. His hand is wrapped around his father’s throat, but not enough to do harm, just enough to contain.
Carmine’s hands scratch at his son’s grip, but there’s no use.
I know that.
I’m sure Carmine knows that.
“Dante—” I start, trying to argue.
“Delilah. Go to your room.”
His words are curt, his eyes never leaving his father’s, and I know this, in a way, is the ultimate test.
I’ve fought Dante on nearly every step of this since we started.
I’ve insisted I have my hand in everything, needing to do this together. Needing not just to be some pretty trophy.
But this is the test.
When it comes down to it, when push comes to shove, will I listen to my husband? Will we work like a team with trust and understanding, letting the other take on a task when necessary.
“I love you,” I say, leaving it at that before I turn to leave.
I don’t tell him not to do anything too brash.
I don’t tell him not to hurt his father.
I don’t even tell him I’ll see him tonight.
I just remind him that I love him, hoping he knows that I mean that no matter what happens in this room, before I walk out, heading to my room and getting ready for bed.
And Dante doesn’t come to me that night.
* * *
The next morning, when I wake up, the house is in shambles.
Carmine Carluccio has died in his sleep.
THIRTY-EIGHT
