Page 12 of Ruined Secrets

Damian smiles. “Yeah, I try to avoid Family gatherings.”

“What he means is he doesn’t want to run into his exes,” I throw in. “Especially since half of them were already married when he slept with them.”

“Makes sense.” Isabella smirks at my brother. “Are you still sleeping with Franco’s daughter?”

Damian swirls his wine and stares at her. “How do you know about that?”

Isabella just smiles and reaches for the carafe with juice.

“I’m not sitting at the same table with that woman!” My daughter’s high voice reaches me.

I turn around in my chair and fix Rosa with my stare, making sure she sees in my eyes what I think about her yelling. “Come here.”

“No. I told you . . .”

“Right this second, piccola.”

She stomps her foot on the floor, juts her chin, and marches over to the table, taking a seat on the other side of Damian.

“Now, apologize to Isabella,” I say.

“No.”

Jesus. Doesn’t puberty hit around twelve or so? Rosa is only seven, but I’m starting to believe she’s going into it prematurely. When I told her that Simona and I were divorcing, her comment was “Good riddance.” The two of them never had any kind of relationship, and Rosa spent more time with our cook than with her own mother. I talked with Rosa last week and explained the situation with Isabella, and she seemed reasonable, but I guess we’ll have to discuss it some more. No matter how or whyIsabella ended up here, I will not allow anyone to disrespect her, my daughter included. And I certainly won’t allow yelling in my house.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Okay. You can go back to your room.”

“What?” She bulges her eyes at me. “And dinner?”

“No apology, no dinner.”

“Dad!”

“You are free to go.” I nod toward the door, and motion with my hand to the maid to serve the food.

“Fine,” Rosa snaps, jumps up from the chair, and marches away.

I follow Rosa with my eyes as she leaves and notice Isabella watching me, her mouth pressed into a thin line. I wait to see if she’ll comment, but she doesn’t say anything, just turns away and focuses on her plate. She probably thinks I’ll let my daughter go to sleep without dinner, and I don’t plan on reassuring her.

I thought finding the kitchen would pose a problem, but when I get down to the ground floor, one of the maids I met when I arrived is dusting the lamp in the corner.

“Anna, can you show me where the kitchen is?” I ask as I approach her.

She blinks at me with a slightly confused expression on her face, then nods quickly. “Of course, Mrs. Rossi. This way.”

I follow Anna down the corridor on the right until we reach the rear of the house, where she stops in front of a white door. “It’s here.”

“Thank you,” I say and step inside.

The kitchen is spacious. Counters and an island on the left. On the right, there is a long wooden table that can seat at least ten people. That’s probably where the staff eat. I head over to the cabinets, where a willowy woman in her fifties is polishing glasses by the sink.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Rossi?”

“Would you mind making me a sandwich? I’d do it myself, but I have no idea where you store the ingredients.”

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