Page 57 of Luca
"No more phone calls, Papa. No more attempts to contact Sofia. If you care about her, you'll let this stand. It’s all we can do."
I leave him sitting in his study, surrounded by coffee-stained papers and the wreckage of his carefully ordered world.
The drive back to the Romano villa feels endless. Paolo makes polite conversation about the weather, but I can barely focus on his words. My father's panic is like a virus, spreading through every aspect of this situation and making everything more dangerous.
By the time we pull through the gates, my hands are shaking.
Luca is waiting in the foyer when I walk in, still wearing the suit from this morning but with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up. He’s been working hard, but his attention immediately focuses on me with laser intensity.
"How was your visit with your father?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"Fine. I just needed to pick up a few things from the house."
"What kind of things?"
I realize I'm empty-handed. No bag, no belongings, nothing to justify the trip. "Personal items. Maria is going to send them over later."
"I see. You were gone longer than expected."
"My father and I were talking. You know how it is."
"Actually, I don't. What do you and your father find to talk about for two hours? Do the two of you get along? I’ve never asked you about the relationship with your father."
The question is casual, but there's a directness underneath. He knows something is wrong, and he's not going to let me deflect much longer.
"We haven’t always gotten along. I know he means well in his own way. He continues to have concerns about me..." I trail off, realizing I'm about to walk into another trap.
"About what?"
"If I'm happy. Whether this marriage is what I expected."
"Is it?"
I look up at him, this dangerous, complicated man who's been nothing but kind to me despite having every reason to be suspicious.
"It's not what I expected," I say honestly.
“In what way?” he asks.
“It’s much better. A thousand times better.”
He blinks and doesn’t comment. My answer surprised him.
"I want to ask you something else," he says. "Last night, when I found you and your father on the terrace. Why did he appear to be afraid of you?"
“I can assure me my father isn’t afraid of me. That’s ridiculous! Why do you keep asking me that?”
"Is it? Because I've been thinking about it all day, and I can't figure out why a father would be afraid of his own daughter unless she wasn't really his daughter. It’s the only thing that makes sense."
He's so close to the truth that I can barely breathe.
I let out a laugh. "Of course I'm his daughter. What else would I be? Everyone says I even have his eyes. If you look at our photos together, you can see the resemblance. Where would you come up with a crazy idea like that?"
"I don't know," he says, his voice quiet but relentless.
“Okay, what do I need to do to make you believe me? Ask me questions about my childhood. Anything. Do you want to know my first memory? Or what happened on my first day of school? My favorite foods my mother made me when I was sick? Ask me the questions, Luca. Anything you want to know. Because clearly something is bothering you.”
“Tonight, when you came back from your father's house, you looked like someone who'd been given an ultimatum."
