Page 37 of The Veiling

“About?”

“I’m not saying I want to be with her in particular,” he took another sip, “but it would be nice to be a present father and there if they need me.”

“It was really sweet of you to take care of them.”

“I didn’t need anything. I tucked some money away, but I wanted them to be okay in my absence.”

“Carissa looks more and more like you every day.”

“She always did.”

“Are you going to go see them?”

“When all this is over, yes. I hope so.”

His gaze shifted to the doorway, and mine followed.

Valentino entered wearing only a pair of light-grey sweatpants. His messy, towel dried hair hung in his face. Placing himself next to me, he reached around my side, pulling me close. “The doctor will be here soon.”

“She can come tonight?”

“Yes, in about twenty minutes.”

My mouth fell agape. “I still have sex all over me and—” I glanced at Marco, then back at Valentino. “I need to go shower.” I twisted back to Marco. “You didn’t hear that.”

He was frozen with his glass almost to his mouth. “I really wish I didn’t.”

I turned back to Valentino. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll have her examine you in your old bedroom, if you’re okay with that.”

“Yes, that’s better.”

“I’ll let you know when she arrives.”

Isabelle stood on her toes, giving me a hug before she apologized to Marco once more for her slip up, then sprinted from the room.

Striding to the counter, I poured myself a glass of the whiskey he had been drinking. One of the more costly brands. “I see you didn’t mind drinking from the top shelf.”

“They’re all top shelf in this place.” He rolled his eyes. “Why areyoudrinking?”

“I often come down here at night to have a glass or two.” I jerked my head toward the back door. “Follow me.”

Having Marco back in my life was strange. Although I had forgiven him, and was just relieved he was alive, we still had a lot of unresolved issues. It would take time to repair the damage he had caused. I had always been stubborn with forgiveness. I kept reminding myself he had more than proven himself with Isabelle. But I had questions. Lots of them. Questions I could not ask while others were around. I planned to interrogate him now while he had liquor in him, and we smoked together.

Before we exited, I opened the small black humidor by the library’s exterior door, taking out two of the Cuban cigars Giovanni Rovati had givenme. Marco pushed the back door open and stepped out onto the patio. I followed behind. Sitting across from me, he reached out and took his cigar, then clipped the tip off before taking a propane lighter from his inside jacket pocket and lighting it. I did the same.

He concentrated while taking the first few puffs. Once settled, he leaned back in the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. “I know you have a lot to say.”

“Naturally.”

“So,” he waved his free hand dismissively, “talk.”

“First of all,” I gritted my teeth, trying my best to remain civil, “why?”

“I already told you.”

“I forgive you, but you left me to think you died. That’s something I’ll never forget.”

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