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Her father’s temper flared too, sparking in his eyes. “You think Lorenzo will want a vindictive wife who sees fault in everything?”
“Well, if he doesn’t want me, I can always take to the streets. You obviously have no problem with other men’s daughters doing that.”
The arrow hit its mark. Papa let out a string of Sicilian curses as he strode away, only to spin back around and point a finger at her. “You are being deliberately crude and ridiculous. Think what you will of my methods, but everything I have done has been for your mother, you, and your brother and sister. I have built a kingdom for you, principessa, so that you might have anything you want.”
“I don’t want this kingdom.” Her voice broke on a sob, and she wished she had something left to throw. “I hate everything about it. I hate you.”
His nostrils flared; he dropped his finger only to curl the hand into a fist. “You do not mean that.”
“Yes I do!” Chest heaving, she stumbled back, tripping over the rug, reaching for the door. She had to get out of here.
Papa shook his head. “You love me, and you know I love you. I love all of you.”
He said it like it should mean something—as if love made any difference when you used it as an excuse to tear the world apart. “Sì. But you love the Mafia more. And I’m through trying to compete with that.” She spun around and fled before he could reply.
