Page 145 of No Greater Oblivion

“Where is he now?”

“Probably at the bottom of the Mediterranean.”

Oscar elbows his husband in the ribs. “Not the time for you to be a smartass.”

Nausea hits me in waves. I keep trying to draw air into my lungs but my chest tightens and my vision starts swimming. If I’d eaten anything today, I probably would’ve vomited until my intestines crawled up my throat.

“Alex?” Beni extends a steadying hand. “Are you all right?”

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Suddenly all the muscles in my hands cramp and ache and the rest of me goes numb. I wonder what would happen if I tried to move—if my legs would be able to support my weight. Voices come at me from every direction but I need it all to stop.

I need the noise to stop.

Grabbing my coat, I decide to find the one person who can give me all the answers I need.

Regina stands at the altar in a long white coat with leather gloves and her hair is pinned back in the vintage style she used to love when we were in university. From this distance, if I squint hard enough, a trick of the light might be able to deceive anyone into thinking she was a bride in a modest gown waiting to be married.

She has her fingers pressed against her lips, freehand propped on her hip as she worries away. As soon as she hears my approach, her head snaps around and she descends from the altar.

“When I offered my help that didn’t include giving you permission to kidnap my sister, you son of a bitch.” She stomps up the aisle toward me. “She’s been gone over two weeks and you haven’t bothered to make contact with me or allowed her to do so herself. Sandro’s suspicious because he expected me to raise all hell when Montserrat disappeared—which I did. Until I realized she was with you and this whole thing was just another part of your ridiculous fucking plan!”

I stop halfway. I want to see how far she goes.

Regina keeps walking, eating up the space between us.

“Have you gone mute?” she snaps. “Where is she? At the villa? Alejo, I swear to God⁠—”

“Was it a boy or a girl?”

She flinches and stops in her tracks. Her eyes narrow as she takes in my appearance. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The child you had four years ago in Corsica…was it a boy or a girl?”

The color drains from her face.

I watch as she contemplates her next move—a denial, an explanation, a half-truth—but my surprise assault has left her scrambling to put up defenses. Eventually, she accepts she has no way out and arrives at her fate, terrified and breathless, eyes cloudy with unshed tears.

“Who told you?”

I’m torn between the urge to strangle her to death, collapse, or beg for answers. I find myself at an uncomfortable crossroads between the three.

“Does it matter?”

“Alejandro—”

She extends her hands but I step just out of reach.

“Do not touch me.”

“Please, let me explain.”

“How could you keep a secret like this from me? How could you keep our child away from⁠—”

She launches forward and frantically presses a gloved hand against my mouth. “Alejo, please! Anyone could walk in.”

I grab hold of her wrist and pin her arm behind her back, holding her in place.

“Let go. You’re hurting me!”