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The walk to the public library is another mile, but I manage it, grateful that I wore sensible shoes. David would hate seeing me out like this, wearing workout leggings, sneakers, and a long top, but he isn’t here to see it. If someone tells him, I’ll deal with it then. I wish for the first time that I wasn’t so carefully trying to keep my pregnancy quiet for now—it’s an excellent excuse for my appearance.
I don’t have a library card, of course, which takes time to set up so I can use the computers. I also don’t have any form of identification, but when I mention my married name, the assistant at the desk is quick to help me. I end up with a laminated card that I tuck into the zippered pocket of my leggings, going to one of the computers at the far end to do my research.
Much like the graves, it doesn’t take long to uncover some of the answers I’ve been so desperately trying to pry out of David. It makes me wonder why he refused to tell me anything, but at the same time, I can’t imagine that he expected me to dothis, to dig at all. He expected me to be a meek wife, to accept his refusal to give me answers, and to know my place.
I refuse to be kept in the dark. Not when my own safety might be at stake—and especially not when my child’s might be.
The first startling thing that I find is that Maricia Carravella was David’s mother. I realize with shock that the woman I met in Boston, when I had dinner with his family, must be his stepmother. Her attitude makes more sense then—the way she treated me, the way she behaved as if she needed to oversee every small detail of the Carravella household and life. It occurs to me that David’s father's move to Boston must have been prompted by his second marriage. I wonder if that’s a part of the reason why David is so irritated by my dislike of the mansion, so easily provoked by any hint that I might want us to leave it. If he resents his stepmother for encouraging his father to do exactly that, and leave the ancestral family home for something more modern.
My suspicions are confirmed that Lucio is, in fact, his brother. There’s very little detail surrounding how he died, which I don’t find all that unusual—if there was anything off about it at all, any conflict or involvement of some other family, it would have been swept under the rug. It would be impossible for anyone to easily find details ofmyfather’s death, or my brother’s exile—all of it carefully covered up by Don Fontana. I imagine that whatever happened here, it was handled similarly.
But what Idouncover is that Bria and Lucio were married. That Marcus was their son. I scroll through the engagement and wedding and birth announcements, my feeling of dread growing bit by bit, until I find a picture of Bria and Lucio on their wedding day, and my heart nearly stops. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to keep from making a sound loud enough to disturb the other library patrons.
The woman in the photos that I found in the attic and Bria Carravella are undoubtedly the same person. And I find, dated just over two years ago, the wedding announcement for Bria and David—two years after Lucio’s death. With a little more digging, I uncover Bria and her young son’s obituaries—once again, with any details of their deaths carefully absent.Howthey died is painfully unclear, just as with Lucio. To someone else, it might seem like nothing. To someone like me, who has spent my life growing up steeped in the dangers and machinations of the mafia, who knows the lengths that these powerful men will go to cover up their crimes—it feels like a physical blow.
I can see the pattern forming. David’s brother, Lucio, married Bria. Their son, Marcus, was born. And then Lucio dies. David marries Bria—why? And then she and her son are both dead, two years later—and I find, in this isolated home where they lived, items that used to belong to them. Not treasured keepsakes kept for a reminder, either, but strange things shoved away in an attic like hiding evidence of guilt.
I’m being paranoid. I have no proof.But I think of what I’ve found in the house—the photos, the children’s toys, the blouse with the bloodstains of David’s anger, of his insistence that none of this is my business. I think of his moods, of his refusal to tell me the truth, and I feel that cold fear sink into my bones all over again.
If I am being paranoid, and I accuse him, he’ll hate me all the more for it. And if I’m not—
I have to find a way to get out of this.The knot in my stomach tightens, a sick feeling that has nothing to do with my pregnancy spreading through me. I’ve never felt so in danger, so certain of the possibility that my husband might pose a very real threat to me. That if he has the slightest inclination that I might uncover all of this, that I might shame his family again as well as mine—
I’m expendable. My child is expendable. Two dead brides in the course of so short a time might raise eyebrows, but a man as powerful and charming as David could cover it up, spin it, turn himself into an object of grieving pity instead of someone to be suspected. And even if anyonedidsuspect him, what would they do? He’s the heir to a powerful mafia name, with Sicily still behind him, even if the Carravellas did diminish somewhat after—
After a misfortune. That’s what I was told. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, the pieces starting to fit together at last. Lucio’s death. His widow’s remarriage. Her death, and the death of her son, the future heir.
Possibly at David’s hand. Something to be covered up. It surprises me that Fontana would help with such a thing, especially considering how heavy a blow he dealt my family—but there’s no telling what other layers there are to it, what favors were owed, what reasons there might be. The wheels of power are always turning, and the women are always the last ones to know why something happens—if we ever really know at all.
I log out of the computer abruptly, another wave of nausea washing through me. I have a long walk home and too much to think about. Too much to face, when I have no real way out of this.
I thought the mansion felt like a prison when David first brought me there.
Now I’m worried that it might be my grave.
26
DAVID
Once again, I come home to find that Amalie has ignored me, and left the house alone again. I catch her slipping back into the house through the back door, quiet as a mouse, not realizing that I already saw her walking down the long path that leads away from the mansion. I can guess where she went—probably to snoop into Bria’s death, to try to find the answers that I refuse to give her. I can also guess that she won’t be able to piece together much from a few gravestones. Not enough to understand what truly happened.
Whichis for the best,I remind myself yet again. Amalie doesn’t need to know about my past. Whatshouldmatter to her is the future, both for my family and hers, and for the one we’ll make together if she hasn’t lied to me. I haven’t grilled her about the things that have happened to her family—not that I would need to; I’m well aware of what Enzo Leone did, just as I’m well aware of what happened to her brother. But all the same—I haven’t asked.
She closes the door almost silently, turns—and then nearly jumps out of her skin as she sees me sitting there at the table.
“David!” She presses one hand to her chest, as if to stop her heart from racing, and I see the blood drain from her face. “You scared me—”
“What do you think you were doing?” I grit my teeth, standing up and walking towards her. I haven’t touched her since I came back drunk from the party and fucked her while she was asleep—a thing that made me feel more than a little guilty in the morning—and just being near her makes my cock twitch restlessly. I have the sudden urge to bend her over the table and punish her. I can almost feel the heat of her bare ass against my palm, hear the way she would whimper for me, imagine the tight, wet warmth of her clasped around my cock afterward, aroused despite herself.
“I went out for a walk.” She tilts her chin up defiantly, jolting me back to reality. She crosses her arms over her breasts, glaring at me, and her rebellion infuriates me all over again.
“I told you not to leave the house—”
“I can’tdoanything if I don’t leave the house! And there’s nothing for me to do here in it!” Her voice rises almost immediately, then falls, her cheeks going a little more pale. It’s almost as if she’s afraid to shout at me, which I find amusing, considering that she’s never acted like that before. “I can’t stand being cooped up,” she says, her voice dropping, her arms wrapping a little tighter around herself. “I feel like I’m going crazy here.”
“You’re being dramatic and spoiled.” I grit my teeth, my frustration rising sharply. “You’re acting as if I’m keeping you in a prison—”
“It feels like it!” Her voice rises again, and I draw in a long breath, trying to contain some of my anger.
