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I feel Elia’s hand curl around the back of my chair, fingers tangling in the ends of my hair. “Maybe someone broke her spirit.”
My father scowls, fork clattering to his plate. “If you have something to say, son, by all means. Let’s hash it out at the fucking dinner table. I’m sure the princess has filled your brain with her lies about me.”
Elia leans back in his seat, smoothing his free hand over his tie. His father cocks an eyebrow at us on his other side. “I’m sure I don’t know what lies you’re talking about.”
“No?” Reaching into the pocket of his khaki pants, he pulls out a folded sheet of paper, tossing it in our direction. “How about that list of names, then? You see that shit? Notice whose name’s circled at the bottom?”
My husband tosses me a glance, then swipes the paper, unfolding it and scanning the page. It’s a list I know by heart, one I was sure I’d deleted from every hard drive at the old house and purposely never printed out.
The names of every man that ever involved himself with my father sit there, some worse than others. Some simple groomers, like him, and others full-on creeps. Elia’s is one of the few there just because of association, outlined in bright red ink.
“Tell him what it is, Caroline. What you’re planning to do to these men.”
Everyone waits for an answer, but he speaks over me. “She wants to fucking kill us, all because of her misunderstandings about how networking works. She’s claimed I abused her for years, that I let my men touch her when they shouldn’t have, that I prepped her for pedophiles, but there’s never been any substance to her allegations. She’s just a dumb little girl way in over her head.”
Mouth drying up, my palms grow sweaty. The bread in my hand falls to the table, forgotten, and I try to talk through the desert forming on my tongue. “I don’t know—”
My father’s fist comes down on the table, causing the dinnerware to rattle with the impact. I flinch out of habit. “Stop fucking lying, whore.” I glance at Elia from the corner of my eye, watching his nostrils flare, eyes darkening.
“Get thefuckout of here.”
My father falters, mouth dropping. “Excuse me?”
Elia stands abruptly, his chair sliding into the wall with the force of his departure. “You heard me. I shouldn’t have invited you in the first place. Caroline was right.”
“She was right? Son, I hate to break it to you, but your wife’s a lying little—”
Rounding the table with a ferocity that makes the walls shake, he stops in front of my father, gripping his collar, and hauls him from his seat, slamming him back against the wall.
His elbow pushes against my father’s windpipe, cutting off his air supply; the older man’s eyes bulge, face reddens, and a sick wave of satisfaction washes over me, thinking this might be the night my nightmares come to an end.
That everything I’ve been working toward culminates here.
“If you keep talking about her like that, I swear on my mother’s grave that I will gut you, right here in front of your family. And I’ll let the Mrs. mop up your fucking blood afterward.”
I press my thighs together, trying to relieve the inappropriate ache between them.Jesus, I’m a mess.
My father’s hands raise in sweet surrender, and Elia moves back, shoving him in Benito’s direction. The guard comes over and grips the senator’s bicep, dragging him behind as he makes his way to the living room and through the front door.
Juliet and my mother sit frozen at the table, the latter’s eyes wide as saucers. My appetite seems to have renewed itself, and while they watch me, incredulous, I finally dig into my pasta. “This pesto is delicious,” I say to Leo, even though I know he won’t respond.
Elia’s father clears his throat, getting to his feet. “Son, can I talk to you in private?”
He nods, following him from the room and avoiding my gaze, leaving the three of us with Leo.
My mother pushes her dish back, gathering her sheer scarf around her shoulders and stands up. “Well, it seems you’ve won over a very dangerous man. Congratulations, dear. I hope he doesn’t kill you in your sleep.”
I kind of hope he does.
She exits the house the same way Benito and my father did, heels clicking against the marble floors and echoing through the house.
Juliet takes a drink of her wine, not phased in the slightest. “That was super-hot.”
“Which part? When Dad called me a whore, or when Mom told everyone I look fat?”
“You know how Mom is.” She sets her glass down, leaning forward. “What was that list about, though?”
I lift a shoulder, shrugging. “No clue.”
