Page 103 of Vow of Silence

“BecauseIknew why.”

Heat races to sear every inch of my exposed flesh. How many fucking betrayals remain unavenged in this goddamn world of ours? How many deaths get swept under the carpet, and why? What the fuckdoesshe know that could justify the lack of closure for my mother’s death. “How? Why keep such a secret?”

She lifts a hand as though to slow me down. “We were good friends, your mother and I. Which was unusual given who our husbands are… were. She lifted my days with her joy, beautiful Irina.”

“Alessio said she was crazy.” I hitch an eyebrow. “If you loved her so much, who gave him that impression?”

“I’d say the same person I feel knows the most about how your mother died.” Her face hardens—gaze far away as she stares at the wall to her left.

“Such as?” I flex my hands atop my knees, trying to rub the clamminess away subtly.

“Such as Ignazio.”

I launch from the chair, unsure where the fuck I intend to go, only that I need to move to save from completely losing my shit.That fucker.He’s got a goddamn finger in every pie. Every grave-dirt soiled, rotten pie. Fuck. “Why do you say that?” I find myself at the fucking clothes again, fussing with the pleat of the jacket’s sleeve where it hangs.

“She confided in me, Nastasya, and I did nothing.” Her heavy sigh breaks the tension. “Second to the feeling that I’ve let my son down, it’s my greatest regret. I failed her, Nastasya, and I’m so, so sorry for that.”

“You were one of many who failed her,” I whisper, rolling my jaw to fight the tears. “I wouldn’t expect you to carry all the guilt.”

“Perhaps, but I look at you, and I’m reminded of her in so many ways.” She pauses, drawing a deep breath.

I dare glance at Brigida, my heart torn when she ducks her head to dab at her evident grief. She loved my mother, and I never knew. I mean, I understood they were acquaintances. Two women bonded by their roles. Yet what I witness as Benito’s mother opens her small bag to produce a tissue is a woman devastated by her perceived role in my mother’s death. A woman whofeels.

And it fucking hits me. She shows more emotion than my goddamn father ever has.

Shecares.

Brigida blots beneath her eyes, smiling awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

Why? “Because you think you’re weak by crying?”

She nods.

“Do you think Gennaro is weak for crying over Benito?”

“No.” She snaps the answer, brow diving.

“Then why do you think that way about yourself?”

Brigida regards me as I resume my seat across from her, searching my face before saying, “I suppose because you’re displaying such strength. Seeming so… unaffected.”

I smirk. “Is that what you think?” My stomach churns, my throat closing in. “I’m affected here.” I place a hand on my stomach. “Here.” Hold my hands out so she can see how they shake. “And here.” Set one to my temple. “This,” I say, gesturing to my face, “is what I’ve become to appease my father’s remorse.”

She frowns.

“He loathes when I show my grief,” I explain. “Hates that I take the so-called attention from him. That I dare assume I could feel half as badly as he does, having lost the love of his life.” I chuckle darkly, glancing down at where I rest my hands in my lap. “I learned to hold it all inside so I didn’t upset him.”

“I’m sorry.” I startle when Brigida’s hand lands atop mine. “That’s not fair of him to do that.”

“We all learn to be resilient in different ways, right?”

She blanches, leaning away as I use her words against her.

“What did she tell you?” I redirect back to the topic, fidgeting my hands before me.

Brigida fills her lugs, steeling her resolve. “Irina told me she felt as though she were being followed. That everywhere she went, there was this creeping feeling,” Brigida shudders, face twisted with disgust. “As though she was being watched.”

“Was she?”

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