My heart breaking, I pressed my hand to the front of my shirt, imagining I could hold the shattered pieces together. “But I don’t love him. I love Sal. I know you don’t want to hear—”
The open palm of my father’s hand collided with my cheek. “Don’t act like a spoiled child, Emilia. I raised you better, and this is bigger than you and what you want. You need to show some respect.”
Pain radiated through me, and I reeled backward, cupping my face with my hand and pointing a finger at my father with the other. “I hate you. I can see why Mom killed herself to get away from you. I’d do the same thing if you were my husband. Oh, wait, maybe I got that wrong. Maybe you stuffed those pills down her throat so she couldn’t leave you. I heard what she said that night. She wanted out of this life, and you didn’t give a shit about her or our family. You only cared about power and money, and that hasn’t changed. She hated you, and I can certainly understand why. You’re a monster incapable of love. You might as well be a fucking robot. As for respect, respect is won not demanded, and you haven’t won mine.”
His mouth twisted into a snarl. “Shut your mouth. You don’t know a damn thing about my relationship with your mother. And as for this marriage, I did everything I could to find another way.”
“Dominick,” Marcello snapped, his hand coming down on my father’s shoulder, hard and unforgiving, “I need to talk to you.”
They headed toward the entryway, stopping in my line of sight, but far enough that I wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation word for word. Marcello rested his hip against the wall, his blue eyes glittering with so much hatred my breath caught.
A scorching tirade in Italian spewed from Marcello’s mouth, and I silently cursed myself for refusing to continue my language lessons after the third grade. While I knew some slang, phrases, and enough to have a shallow conversation, Marcello’s rapid-fire words made no sense. My father’s answer was short and curt. Marcello gestured to the front door and switched to English to tell him to give us some time alone. My father’s lips thinned and he walked right past me without making eye contact.
“Where are you going?” I called after him.
“Out. I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up for me.” His far-reaching strides ate up the floor, and the service door to the garage slammed shut less than a minute later.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Marcello crossed the room and righted my chair at the kitchen table. “Sit.”
I was more than a little bewildered by what I witnessed. Nobody treated my dad like that, and if they tried, he made damn sure they were six feet under so it wouldn’t happen again. Yet, after a few harsh sentences, he caved to Marcello. I didn’t get it.
He tapped his fingers on the wooden-slatted back. “Please.”
“What happened with my dad?” I slipped into the chair rather than argue with him. If the last minutes told me anything, it was that my rebellion would be futile. Complying was the fastest way to end this interaction.
“Not yet.”
He moved into the kitchen, opening cabinet after cabinet.
“Can I help you find something?”
He popped up holding a clear bottle and two shot glasses. “I found it.”
“What’s that?”
“Sambuca. My nonna made me drink it when I didn’t feel well.”
“She gave you shots of alcohol?” I said, utterly incredulous.
“Not shots, more like a tablespoon here or there. Don’t knock it until you try it.”
He set everything on the table next to me and filled the glasses until they were seeping over the rim.
I waved my hand flippantly. “I’m not going to drink that crap. It tastes like black licorice.”
He slid one of the glasses closer to me with two long fingers, leaving a small puddle of clear liquid pooling on top of the table. “So what’s your point?”
“I hate black licorice.”
“Humor me.”
I rolled my eyes. Somehow this man always found a way to trick me into forgetting my bad mood.
“One shot and then you’ll leave, and I’ll go to bed.”
“Three.”
“No.”
“Yes. Three shots for three truths. You can ask me three questions about anything. For every answer I give you, you’ll take a shot and vice versa.”
“Two truths,” I countered.
“Two truths and three shots. One before we start, the rest with each question.”
My eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Three shots won’t do anything except help you relax.”
I raised my hands in the air. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t weigh that much.”