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“It’s what happened. I wondered, of course, if Ciro had found out about us…but in that case, he would have killedme. Not her. Never her.”
I hate the fact that I agree with him.
“She was the most wonderful, passionate woman,” he goes on, “but she was unpredictable. Like—like you. She had sudden highs and lows—one minute she would be elated, the next she was in despair. I think that’s what happened that day.” He looks down at his hands for a moment, then back up to meet my gaze. “Perhaps she realized our escape was only a death sentence. Or perhaps she decided she couldn’t risk your life, but couldn’t stand to go on with her own.”
I almost laugh as I see the path not taken stretch out before me: my mother and Lombardo and me, a happy little family living in my mother’s beloved England. “You thoughtyoucould raise me?” I ask him with a smile. “You thoughtyouwould be a worthy father?”
He shakes his head. “I was willing to do whatever it took,” he says softly. “After her death, I tried to protect you. I tried to...” He clears his throat. “I had a chance to make your life different, but I’m ashamed to say I was too wrapped up in my own grief.”
“You were a coward,” I tell him. “And you still are.”
“Perhaps,” he says heavily. “Well? What now? Are you going to kill me for loving your mother, Julian?”
For a moment, I contemplate it. If not for that pesky instruction by Sandro, it would be an easy call. But I shrug and head for the door. “No,” I say, before I open it. I turn back to him. “But I’m going to find out who took away her life. You may have loved her, Lombardo, but shebelongedto me. And someone took her away from me.” I stretch, let my neck crack. “Whoever it was, they will regret it.”
I have my hand on the doorknob when Lombardo calls out. “Wait. Why did you think it was me?” he asks, his lips trembling.
“I told you. Isawyou. Your navy suit. White shirt.”
His face changes. Approximates sympathy. “Navy suits were popular that year,” he says gently. “And you were five years old. Even if you were there—even if you saw…something, you must have mixed it up.”
This is a difficult admission to make, but it’s better than the truth. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I must have gotten things mixed up. As you say, I was five years old.”
* * *
I leave his office, the building, and head off to a new red carpet premiere to which I was invited. I like these events. So many pretty little sheep milling around, I can let their chatter and their Hollywood machinations wash over me as I brood over what I learned today.
I’d been sosureit was Lombardo. That smell, the hair wax, the old-fashioned cologne…he still wears the same brands. And Ididsee him. I see him even as I nod and smile at the current It Girl, the one in all the biggest releases recently, the one tipped to win the Academy Award.
I see the man in the navy suit, I hear the fountain trickling, I see my mother’s head forced under the water.
I see a redhead in a glamorous golden gown, whose face freezes at the sight of me. Ah. That must be Roxanne Rochford, Gino Bernardi’s fiancée. She’s been cast in a movie that our production company—not that Sandro pays much attention to it these days—gave a small amount of backing to, which is probably why she’s here today. Promotion.
She turns and practically runs away, but all I can think about is Lombardo.
I know it was him.
And yet Idon’tknow. I can’t besure. Not because I was five years old, but because I can’t trust my own eyes.
Sandro wonders why I haven’t been quicker about searching out the killer. He thinks it’s because I have nothing, no proof, no tangible evidence. He’s not wrong…
But that’s not the only reason.
I have to becareful. I have to make sure I don’t reveal my greatest weakness. Because if anyone ever found out, it would be open season on me.
And I’d never see them coming.
CHAPTER9
LEO
Tonight’s the night.
I want to make sure Julian Castellani is in as good a mood as possible, so I take pains to bring in the kind of shit I know he likes: expensive booze, the poppers, a few edibles, and a little coke that I begged off of Gertie. But as soon as Castellani walks in, he seems wary.
“What’s all this?” he demands, as though I’ve presented him with a pile of manure.
“A few extras,” I tell him, my voice neutral and even. “To help you relax.”
