Page 82 of Sins of the Son

I walked past him and headed toward the staircase leading to her old apartment above the shop.

I turned as Sal called out, “But make no mistake, Cavalieri or not, if you hurt her again….”

I made a mental note to speak to our family’s accountant. I was going to set up a trust fund for each one of this man’s children, as well as a bank account for him and his wife. The loyalty he had shown my future wife deserved to be rewarded. I would see to it. If he worked, it would only be because he enjoyed it, not out of want.

I gave him a curt nod. “Noted. Your trust is not misplaced, Sal. I promise I’ll take good care of her. You have my word as a Cavalieri and as a man of honor.”

He lifted his hand in a sort of wave and returned to his shop.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I opened the apartment door with my key.

The place had changed in the weeks since Milana had left. Everything was neat and orderly, but the life and energy was missing from the small space. I closed the door and walked further inside. I found Milana in the bedroom.

That was another change.

Gone were her racks of clothes and the countless shoes which had lined the floor.

Now there was a simple bed with a nightstand and a refurbished bureau in the corner with an antique, gold-framed mirror propped on top, ready to be hung, and a small cardboard box.

Milana met my gaze in the mirror. “This is it. My entire life. In a single box.”

She looked down at the box and pulled out a framed photo of her and Amara from a trip to Rome.

I stepped closer.

Her gaze flashed back to mine in the mirror.

Her dark eyes narrowed in warning.

I stilled. The muscles between my shoulder blades tensed as I forced my arms to my sides and attempted to keep my gaze impassive.

She looked back down at the box. “Sal’s turning this into an Airbnb for the tourists. This box is all that was left of mine, of me.”

My gaze scanned the bedroom walls, taking in the vibrant and eclectic artwork, both in this room and in the rooms beyond. Each piece reflected Milana’s retro-glam, artistic style. “That’s not true. What about the artwork?”

Just the barest hint of a smile crossed her lips before a melancholy look took hold, like an ethereal ghost disappearing into the gloom. “I don’t own any of it. Sal used to sneak me petty cash during market days so that I could brighten up my apartment with any secondhand bits and pieces I found.”

Trying again, I said, “Well, I remember a member of Rosa’s staff unpacking at least three suitcases of dresses and purses.” Hoping talk of clothes would cheer her up, like it usually did.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, but her gaze was sightless. “All used pieces. Secondhand. It’s funny when you think about it. My own mother threw me away, so it makes sense that all my belongings would be clothes and artwork and things that other people threw away. And why those boys treated me like a piece of trash to be used to get back at you. I can put on all the red lipstick and fake gold jewelry and used designer high heels I want. I can put on glamorous airs and talk a good game, but in the end, people know. They know when something is secondhand. Unwanted. Trash.”

I had heard enough.

I stormed across the room and grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face me.

Before I could say anything, she looked down at my bandaged hand.

A reminder of yesterday’s violence.

“Is he dead? Romolo?”

“Yes, but not by my hand. He killed himself.”

She shifted her eyes away, looking around the room before settling her gaze back on me. She raised her eyebrows as she cocked her head. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

I frowned as my jaw tightened. I didn’t like this mood on her.

It was destructive and dangerous.

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