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“What did she say?” He interrupted impatiently.
“That he would never forgive her for losing the baby. For leaving him, and losing the child. She was so wracked by guilt, I could not risk adding to it.”
Carlo was finding breathing difficult. He slammed his hand down on his desk and spun away from Elisabetta. With the greatest effort, he reined his anger in. “I loved her. I deserved to know.”
“Yes. I agree. But telling you was outside the scope of my job. Frankly, Carlo, Jane deserved better than that.” Elisabetta braced herself to say what she’d been thinking for months. “Spying on your ex-wife is not why I signed up to join your personal security detail.”
Carlo turned around slowly, his body straight as an arrow. “You know the threats Jane received. Despite my best efforts to keep her out of the public eye, whoever knows the truth of my paternity also knew about our marriage.”
Elisabetta nodded. “Yes. I saw the death threats. I know why you had me guard her. But Jane and I have become genuine friends. The duplicity of my relationship with her now feels wrong.”
He grunted. “I can understand that. But I needed someone I could trust. Someone I trusted completely.”
Elisabetta nodded. “In the end, it didn’t help.”
“Tell me what your investigation has revealed.”
“Only that it’s definitely linked to you. And your family.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a piece of paper, covered in plastic. It was the same font as the original death threat he’d received, only a week after their wedding.
He read the page now. Living in London doesn’t change a thing. We can find you anywhere, Mrs Parelli.
“They used my father’s name,” he said, ice trickling through his veins.
Elisabetta nodded. “You must confront him. He will more than likely know who is behind it, and why.”
Carlo was torn. “I left my father’s home the day after I discovered who he was and what he did. The blood on his hands could turn this city red. I have not spoken to him since I was twelve. And I do not ever intend to.”
“Even for Jane?”
He looked at her sharply. “You know I would do anything to keep her safe. But there are other ways to discover the man who wants to hurt her. Ways that do not involve that murderous son of a bitch.” He ran his palm across his jaw. It was thick with stubble, despite the fact he’d shaved that morning. “Unfortunately, to protect her properly, I am going to have to tell her things that will ensure she never wants to see me again.”
Long after he’d dropped Liz back at her central Rome hotel, Carlo’s mind was still ticking over the problem. The idea that someone
out there was actively wanting to hurt Jane – worse, had hurt her already – made every bone in his body strengthen with an instinct and resolve to protect her. But he’d felt that since he’d met her. That first moment, when he’d walked into the crowded bar and seen her weaving with effortless grace through tables and customers, he had wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her tight.
And he’d failed.
So why would this be any different?
Because it had to be.
He dreamed of his father that night. For the first time in years, he saw his face as clearly as if he were actually standing in front of him.
It was the night he’d discovered his father was high up in a sort of mob like group. An impressionable twelve year old who had grown up adoring his father, and never questioning where the family’s wealth and position of authority came from, in their small northern Italian town. Why would a child consider such matters? His father was God-like, and that was all the young Carlo Parelli had minded.
Until that night.
He shouldn’t have been out of bed, but Carlo had wanted to stay up and see his favourite uncle. He’d snuck out of his room, and crept down the lavish corridor of the seventeenth century palace. His father and various friends were in the study. At least, that’s what Carlo had thought. As he’d neared the room, he’d witnessed a scene entirely different to what he’d ever known. His father, brandishing a knife, torturing another man. His favourite uncle held the man’s arms back, while Alberto Parelli had made him cry out in pain. And Alberto’s face had been completely emotionless.
Carlo had steeled himself to stay; to watch and listen until he had understood just what was happening.
As if the missing piece of the puzzle had finally been discovered, laying dormant beneath the sofa, everything about his childhood suddenly seemed to make sense. The glamorous women who were always following his father and uncles into the palace; the extreme wealth, and the fear and obedience Carlo had seen in the townspeople.
He was twelve, not two. The exact nature of his father’s business enterprises was suddenly crystal clear. And Carlo, who had been raised with a total reverence for black and white morality, had wanted no part of that life. He’d packed his bag, and left the home without a backwards glance.
But in his dreams, he had one last conversation with his father.
Why, papa?
