Page 93 of Bitter Poetry
The door opens and Nina enters with a tray bearing our drinks. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Accardi?”
“No, thank you, Nina,” he says, smiling. “That’ll be all.”
I sip my coffee and set it back in the saucer. He’s going to find out sooner or later, and I’m curious enough about his reaction to broach the topic. “I’m marrying Helena.”
His face loses the small amount of color it had, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “You love her?”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Please don’t insult me. It may have been a while, Cedro. But do you think I’ve changed that much?”
His eyes search mine. I consider telling him my plans, yet something holds me back.
He grimaces. “She was always a disagreeable woman. My late wife despised her with a passion. Said she was uncouth.”
“Your late wife was known for her discerning opinion on many things, including people.”
“Then why are you marrying her?”
The spark of his former passion takes the edge off my simmering rage. When I think about how he handed Carmela over to Ettore, I could happily wrap my fingers around his throatand squeeze. According to Christian, she visits her father every week and clearly has some feelings for the old fool.
I don’t answer him, just hold his steady gaze and let him let that sink in.
“I made a terrible mistake.”
My nostrils flare. I’ve waited a year to hear him say this. Fully expected I would have to drag him to the door of enlightenment. That he tosses it out at our first meeting should relieve me. It doesn’t. It pisses me off. “And you choose now to admit this?”
He sighs. “You’re right. You told me at the time. I wasn’t ready to listen, too deep in my grief to accept he might be responsible for the death of my wife.”
There was a time when my heart might have kicked up a beat at this kind of conversation. But not anymore. Today it remains slow and steady as I stare at the man who, through weakness or grief, set in motion events that ripped this family apart. “Something has changed that you’ve seen the light?”
“Something?” He runs his fingers over his jaw and across his lips like he’s trying to wipe a bad taste away. “For certain. Everything, and more. I see my daughter every week. I see the bruises. Only a weak man raises his hand to a woman. My daughter is trusting. She carries herself with dignity even at this young age.” His jaw is locked tight—I’m fucking reeling. “I know she doesn’t give him reason to treat her with such cruelty and disrespect.”
“Bruises?”
His face softens. “I wondered if Christian would tell you, given how little contact the two of you have.”
“Not much,” I hedge. So much for maintaining a calm facade. I’m going to strangle my fucking brother for keeping this from me.
“Your face tells me why he kept it from you.”
Well, fuck.
“You visited Ettore this morning and got his permission to see me, I presume. Maybe you even saw her there.”
A tic thumps in my jaw.
He nods. “I’ve had my suspicions from the start that she wasn’t happy. That he might be hurting her. Sometimes the bruises are hard to cover. And Ettore is not a man overly concerned about maintaining appearances enough to hit her only where no one can see. If you’d known all of this the first time you saw her in a year, how do you think it would have played out?”
“Not well,” I concede.
“Your brother is a man wise beyond his years. He may work for Ettore, but he’s loyal first and foremost to you. He’s good with her… in his own unique way. Gives her an outlet. Their altercations are… heated at times. I’m not one for eavesdropping, but it’s hard to miss them.” His smile is both sad and rueful. “My dear Monica would turn in her grave to hear me speak so glowingly of Christian. But she was wrong occasionally.”
He turns away, wheeling his chair to the bureau and opening a drawer.
My heart is beating a mile a minute.
Today, I’m reminded that Cedro, despite appearances and circumstances, has revived his skills in reading people that were so sadly missing at the time of his wife’s death.
Today, I’m also reminded that I, too, played my part in leaving Carmela to Ettore.
