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Francesco, his expression darkening, nodded. ‘He was, but it was not a success. Rafe spent four years trying to cling to her, desperately trying to change himself into the sort of man she wanted him to be.’
It had destroyed him.
It was obvious from the tension in Francesco’s manner that he didn’t enjoy speaking about his brother. Erin hesitated before gently asking, ‘How did he die?’
‘He killed himself.’
A short static silence followed his abrupt and shocking words. A tiny gasp escaped Erin’s parted lips. ‘He took an overdose.’
She lifted a hand to her mouth and her blue eyes filled with tears of sympathy.
‘When I found him he looked as if he was sleeping. He looked so peaceful,’ Francesco recalled.
Erin’s eyes widened with horror. Not only had his twin killed himself, Francesco had found the body! She ached to comfort him, but what, she wondered, could you say that didn’t sound like a pathetic platitude?
‘He came to see me, you know, earlier that week asking for my advice.’
That in itself had not been unusual. His twin had always turned up when he’d had a problem; admittedly sometimes Francesco had had trouble recognising the things Rafe had lost sleep over as problems. And if he was brutally honest with himself the dramatic spin his brother had put on relatively trivial incidents had frequently annoyed him.
It seemed to him that Rafe had lurched from one drama to another. Rafe didn’t meet a beautiful woman, he met a goddess!
Francesco had never met a goddess and he had definitely never felt the desire to place a woman on a pedestal. When Rafe had only half-jokingly accused him of having no soul he had not disagreed.
‘You want to know what I told him? What I told my suicidal brother?’ Erin shook her head and felt totally inadequate in the face of the anguish that was written in every line of his face. ‘I said, “Pull yourself together, Rafe.” I told him that people don’t die of broken hearts, but it turned out they do.’
The official verdict, of course, had been different.
It had emerged at the inquest that Rafe had recently been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and had convinced his doctors he had been taking his medication for the condition. His family, Francesco included, had known nothing about his disorder and this, they had concluded, had been the main factor that had led to his tragic suicide.
But Francesco knew different; he could have changed things. He should have changed things.
Horror-stricken, Erin could only sit and listen as the words spilled from him. She had the impression he had forgotten she was even there; it made her wonder how long he’d had these feelings locked inside.
‘My brother needed me and all I could come up with was worthless platitudes.’ His voice shook with self-loathing. ‘He loved that woman more than life itself and I said, “Don’t sit there moping. Be tough—go and get her.” So he did and she told him that she loved someone else and he killed himself.’
As he closed his eyes Francesco’s head fell forward. She watched his shoulders heave. ‘You stupid idiot, Rafe! Dio, what a waste. What a total bloody waste!’ he raged.
Unable to bear his pain any longer, Erin got to her knees on the bed and came up behind him, pressing her body up against the curve of his spine and, resting her head against his neck, linked her hands across his chest.
It was little enough but the physical contact seemed to help him regain some degree of control over his emotions because the shudders that racked his
body gradually stopped.
As he straightened up Erin loosed her grip and leaned back on her heels, her grave blue eyes trained on his face as he swept the blue-black hair back from his brow.
‘I can’t even begin to imagine what it must feel like …’ she said softly.
‘You really want to know?’ he yelled, turning his seething anger on her. ‘Will that satisfy your grubby, prurient curiosity? You’re just like all the others, pretending sympathy while enjoying the misfortunes of another!’
Erin flinched at the bile in his tone but did not try and defend herself or protest this very black view of human nature.
‘If you want to tell me, Francesco.’
She realised he had never stopped blaming himself for his brother’s death.
‘I wake up every morning and there’s a dark empty space inside me … a black hole.’ He pressed a hand to his chest and turned eyes that were filled with bitter self-reproach to Erin. ‘It hurts knowing that I will never see him again, never hear his voice again, and the worst part is I could have stopped it. I should have known.’ He swallowed, the muscles in his brown throat working as he closed his eyes.
Hand pressed to her mouth, Erin watched as he fought to regain control. She was shocked and horrified. How long, she wondered, had he been carrying around this guilt and pain?
