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I look up from the papers to find her frowning, thoughtful. “He’d want you to believe he had everything under control. When you live your whole life giving off this strong, powerful aura, who does it make you when you aren’t strong or powerful anymore? Who are you? That’s a big, scary question for anybody to wrap their head around. He might not have wanted to admit it even to himself that he was sick.”
“I should’ve said something.”
“Hey.” She sits beside me in the middle of so much paper, so many mementos from a life now over. “Don’t do that to yourself. You know he would’ve told you to fuck off or something like that.”
“Yes, something like that,” I admit. “But I could’ve tried.”
“You can’t blame yourself. He had his reasons for keeping it from you—and in the end, isn’t that his right? It was his life. He had the choice of whether he wanted anyone to know.”
“I would’ve appreciated a heads-up, at least. He knew what his death would mean to me.” I drop the rest of what I’m holding in favor of lowering my head into my hands and closing my eyes. It’s all so complicated. He lied to me. Alicia lied. Where’s the truth? Is there such a thing? How do I know who to trust?
She ponders this for a silent moment while rubbing my back in slow circles. I don’t have it in me to make her stop. I don’t want her to, either. “He believed you could face whatever came next.”
“That’s generous of you, but you have no way of knowing that.”
“Don’t I?” She nudges me until I look at her. The softness and warmth in her smile take my breath away. “Let’s say Frankie was telling the truth, and the assassination was set up by your grandfather. Do you think he would’ve gone through with it if he didn’t think you could handle the family once he was gone? I can’t believe that. He trusted you. He knew you would step up and take control. And you have. Look at how you’ve risen to the occasion.”
Is she for real? How can she mean that after everything she’s been through? After everything I’ve put her through? Is this another lie, a way of getting closer to me so her life will be easier?
Something inside me recoils from the question. There’s nothing but sincerity radiating from her smile and gentle touch. I find myself leaning into that touch, into her, before I know what I’m doing. I didn’t mean to allow her to wrap her arms around me, but that’s what she does. I settle in against her, and she holds me, not saying a word. She doesn’t need to. This is more than enough. I can almost believe she has what it takes to heal my blackened heart when she enfolds me in her arms and allows me to process everything.
“I’m with you,” she whispers after what feels like a long time but isn’t nearly long enough. “I’m here. And we’ll get to the bottom of this together.”
Yes. I want that, too.
35
ALICIA
“Iwish I understood. It doesn’t seem like something he would do.” Enzo joins me at the stove while I scramble eggs. One of the few things I’m actually good at cooking. Since he pulled back the number of guards around the house, it’s easier to feel comfortable hanging around in nothing but a nightshirt. We could be an actual, normal couple getting ready to eat brunch.
Except for the way he can’t let go of his grandfather’s final wishes—and whether or not things actually unfolded the way it’s looking more and more like they did. He can’t accept it. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe because you’ve known him for so long.”
“What do you mean?” There’s a difference in the way he asks that. No demand, no edge of a threat in his voice. We’ve come a long way. I wonder if he notices.
“It’s easier for me to understand. And I do. I got it right away.” He grunts, and I glance his way. “I’m sorry. But it’s true. Everything clicked into place for me as soon as I heard it.”
“That makes one of us because I can’t make it click into place.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” I take the eggs off the heat and slide bread into the toaster. I don’t think it’s ever been used before—it’s practically sparkling. Like so much of this kitchen is only for show.
He sips his coffee, staring at nothing. His brows are knitted together in frustration, and he keeps shaking his head slightly. “I just don’t get it. Doesn’t seem like something he would do—at least, not to me.”
“Like I said, it’s because you knew him. And you loved him, and that’s good. You’re lucky you had somebody like that in your life.”
He laughs softly, like the word love never came into it, while accepting the plate I hand him. “I should be cooking for you. You need your rest.”
“I’m pregnant, not sick.” And even though the thought of eating breakfast earlier was enough to turn my stomach, today’s bout with morning sickness has passed. Now I have a raging appetite. “And no offense, but we both know you can’t cook.”
“What, you mean there’s more to it than ordering something on an app?” I’m surprised at his little joke. It sounds good, and it feels good. I don’t like to think of him wallowing in this. If he can make little jokes, he’s not completely gone, not totally lost in his troubled thoughts.
And he’s sharing them with me. He’s opening up to me. It’s probably wrong for me to revel in that, considering how upset he is, but there’s no stopping that little part of me that cheers every time he shares a little more of his inner thoughts.
We sit down at the table, facing each other. “This is very good,” he grunts between forkfuls of egg. He then slathers butter and Jelly on a slice of toast. It’s good to see him eating with gusto. I’m sure knowing Alvarez isn’t a problem anymore goes a long way toward his change in mood.
“I can fumble my way around the kitchen if I have to. I guess I never had much of a chance to learn how to cook.”
