Page 41 of Prideful Union
“I did a DNA test. Franco Moretti is your father. Not Riccardo. Your mom lied about it. Did you know?”
“What? Of course not! This can’t be true.” She gets off the bed and grabs the paper from me. Her eyes scan it. “This can’t be true.”
“It is.”
She slowly looks up at me. “How did you even do this test? My uncle died years ago, and my father died before I was born.”
“Your uncle is actually your father. Not the man your mom said.”
“That’s absurd. Why would my mom lie about that?”
“Why wouldn’t she? She gets to hide her true colors from the world.”
Lucia narrows her eyes and places her hands on her hips. “And what kind of person is she, Santino?”
“The kind that fucks her dead husband’s brother not long after he’s in the grave.”
“What?”
“Do the math, Lucia. You were born less than a year after your father died, meaning your mom got pregnant with you and your brother not soon after he died.”
“Which means she … slept with Uncle Franco.”
“Exactly. And she lied about it. She deceived me. Made me think I was marrying the daughter of the esteemed Riccardo Moretti. Not some knockoff.”
Lucia bristles. “I am not some knockoff. I didn’t know about this.” She throws the piece of paper at me. “I didn’t know anything. So, don’t come in here and try to make me out to be the bad guy.”
“I know who the bad guy is. Your mother.”
I’m not expecting the slap. “Don’t you dare say that about my mother. You don’t know why she did this.”
“Do you? Because it sounds like she couldn’t wait to sleep around after Riccardo died.”
“No. There must be an explanation. The way my mom talks about my father—” She stops. “Riccardo. She loves him. No one else could hold a candle to him. She was happy when Franco died. Why would she have slept with him if she hated him?”
“I’m not sure. Why did you come into my room last night when I know you don’t like me.”
She huffs. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you’re my husband. I was trying to make things work between us.”
“And how is that going?” I ask.
“Not well. Because you’re acting like an asshole again.”
“I’m the asshole?” I scoff. “I’m the one who was lied to.”
“And so was I!”
I scoff again. “You had to have known.”
“What?” She squints at me. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. There’s no way you didn’t know who your father was.”
“Well, I didn’t. My mom always told me it was Riccardo. She hated Franco. Trust me on that. I need to talk to her. Get answers.”
