Is Dominic my Francesca?
Are we a tragedy in the making?
The thought makes me ill.
The walls feel like they are closing in, and I can’t breathe.
I accept food from Mom and Nonna, answer the chime of Gigi’s text, letting her know I’m still alive, and meet with Matteo on the front porch.
All while keeping Dad’s confession to myself.
“I’m fine. I’m hurting. I’m tired.”
Everyone accepts my excuses without interrogation.
Time blurs. At some point, the sun dips below the skyline.
My eyes are glued to the ceiling as I rack my brain for answers.
I have a chessboard of traitors but no one to checkmate.
Tears blur my vision.
I hate my father for keeping secrets.
I hate the fact that his loving someone got her killed.
I miss him, his laugh, his harsh advice, his presence.
This confession is suffocating me.
Did Mom know?
Probably not.
And to top it off, I had a sibling who never got to live.
Dad kept that pain locked away, and now it’s mine to carry.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper. “I’ll do my best to make it right.”
Chapter thirty
Making things right is going to be a lot harder than I thought, especially when I can’t bring the dead back to life.
“Is this the right spot, boss?” Mario glances at me from the rearview mirror.
“Yes. You can pull up right here, and take the afternoon off. I have some shopping to do and then I’m meeting with Lucia. Thank you.”
“Okay, boss.” Mario stops at the curb and opens the door for me. I give him a smile, then wait until he drives away.
I’m only a block away from Dominic’s office, which is my destination. But I didn’t want to tell Mario that. After all, Dad did say don’t trust the men in our family.
A cold breeze rushes past, sending a shiver down my spine. I plunge my hands into my long coat and feel something brush against my skin. Withdrawing, I see a piece of paper clutched between my fingers.
It’s the stanzas from the poem The Raven that was delivered in the box of feathers at the warehouse.
Opening, the crumpled piece of paper, my eyes glaze over the words, as I walk to the high-rise.
