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“My husband made up the difference. But those days are over now.”
“It looks to me like you are going to do just fine,” I said. “Even better than fine. I’m guessing he cut you off?”
“He did. In so many ways. My driver was the last perk to go. My husband even suggested I get a car and start driving again—” She stopped short.
It was clear she’d spilled something she hadn’t intended to. Did I dare ask?
“What about driving?”
“Ummm.” She hesitated, such a sadness passing over her eyes that my chest tightened.
“I’ll share my story if you share yours,” I offered.
“Okay. You first,” she said.
“All right. I grew up in Milano. Son of an importer, or so I thought.”
She furrowed her beautiful brow. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“When I was about to leave for university, my father was arrested and sent to prison.”
“Oh my god, Gio.”
“The worst of it was that the rest of my family was in terrible danger. We had to flee Italy with little more than the clothes on our backs.”
r /> Her eyes widened, and she took my hand. “That’s terrible.”
“Turned out, he was an arms dealer and owed some bad guys a lot of money. We came to the U.S. under a special program and never looked back.”
Those were sad days indeed, considering all that we left behind—most importantly, our father.
“So where is the rest of your family, now?” she asked.
“My mom passed away a few years after we arrived, pretty much of a broken heart. She didn’t adjust well to the U.S., nor to life without my father. My three brothers live here in the States. We never saw our father again. He died in prison two years after we left Italy. Actually, I don’t think his death was accidental, but nothing’s ever been proven. When you have enemies like he did, anything is possible.”
She looked at me, speechless, but I was used to that. The few people I shared my story with all looked at me like that when they first heard it.
“Allora. That’s my story. Son of an arms dealer.”
“Good god, Gio. You could write a book,” she said
“I suppose I could. But I wouldn’t. Every day, I try to forget that period of my life.”
She nodded, her compassion bringing tears to my eyes.
“And you? You have a secret of your own?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. “Yeah. I don’t drive, like I mentioned. The reason is that years ago, my sister died in a car accident when I was behind the wheel. I’ve never driven again.”
I wanted to kiss the shame and sadness right off her face. “Oh, cara. I am so sorry.” I took her hand and brushed my lips over the back of it.
“And my ex-husband insisting I start driving again is his evil way of twisting the knife in my heart. He knows I can’t.”
“What a horrible man. I have to tell you, darling—I’ve met him and know about his business dealings. You are far too good for him. You are better off without him, making your own new life.”
She nodded. “I’m beginning to see that.”
“Cara, do you mind if I kiss you?”
