Vendetta (Blood for Blood #1)(31)

“Unlikely,” said Valentino.

Felice shook his head. “Of course it’s not,” he murmured. “He has his priorities in order.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a dig at me or a dig at the other three brothers.

“Dom’s?” Felice asked with a frown, like it was the world’s most important mystery.

“No. He’s taking out that girl from the diner.”

“Ah yes, of course.”

My lips parted in surprise. So they already knew about Millie? That news was barely twenty-four hours old! They must have shared everything with each other. And yet they apparently had no idea who I was.

“It’s Nic’s,” I cut in, feeling marginally insulted. “I ran into him at the diner last night and he let me borrow it because it was raining.”

Felice stiffened, exchanging a poorly concealed look of alarm with Valentino.

“Nicoli didn’t mention that,” he said, regaining his composure in a flash of teeth.

His response landed with a blow. How could they know about Millie already but not a single iota about me? Nic obviously didn’t think me important enough to mention, even in passing. The thought made me feel stupid for even being there.

“Well, here it is.” I dropped the hoodie back on the chair carelessly. I had clearly made too much of it already. “I just wanted to give it back, but then we got to talking about Valentino’s artwork and the time got away from me.”

“Ah.” Felice clapped his nephew on the shoulder and glanced at the pile of drawings. “Exquisite, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” I said, wishing I had never come in the first place.

“You know,” said Felice, to no one in particular, “I’ve been reading the most incredible things about artistic sensibilities and their connection to great tragedy recently.” He moved away from Valentino and began to pace around the table. “Did you know that many artists and composers have been known to create their best works following tragedies in their personal lives?”

He didn’t wait for either of us to respond, but continued striding around the kitchen, moving his hands around as he spoke. “Just look at Carlo Gesualdo, a famed Italian prince and widely regarded genius. He murdered his wife and her lover in their bed, mutilated their bodies, and then strung them up outside his palace for everyone to see. And then he went on to compose some of the most powerful and dark music of the sixteenth century.”

Valentino shifted in his chair.

Felice stopped gesticulating and zeroed in on me for my reaction. “What do you think of that?”

I tried not to think of how horribly awry my plan had gone.

“It seems to me that the composer’s tragedy was brought upon himself,” I ventured, silently wishing I could just dissolve into the ground and slither home through the earth’s core. “So I’m not sure you should count it as something that happened to him.”

“A debater, I see.” Felice’s expression turned gleeful. “But surely you could argue that the pressure of having to exact retribution was brought upon him by his wife’s actions. To punish her was the societal expectation, but the act of having to do it, for him, I think, may still have been a personal tragedy.”

“But surely he didn’t have to kill her.” If only Millie could see me now — debating the intricacies of sixteenth-century murder. All this and headstones in the last twenty-four hours — the calendar said July, but it was definitely starting to feel like Halloween.

“Well, his wife was unfaithful, and in those days, unfaithfulness carried a high penalty.”

“As high as murder?”

“I believe so.”

I crossed my arms, feeling offended on behalf of all sixteenth-century women. “I don’t feel her betrayal justified his response.”

“Ah!” Felice raised his index finger in the air like he had just happened upon the answer to an unsolved riddle. “But seeing as his response led directly to his musical legacy, perhaps, in the grander scheme of things, it did. All in all, I think it might have made the world a better place. And surely there is justification in that.”

“Uh …” I began awkwardly. I was getting confused, and certainly out of my depth. “I just think the whole thing is pretty messed up.”

“Yes,” echoed Valentino, clearing his throat. “It is messed up. Just like this conversation.”

Felice waved his hand dismissively, his attention now resting on the oil paintings behind us. “But the point is, the music was glorious. You must consider the possibility of an inverse correlation, which would mean a dark deed leading to a deeper connection with creative energy and, as a consequence, a beautiful composition.”

“Hitler was an artist before he committed all of his atrocities.” That was about the only thing I had gleaned from history class — and since we were chitchatting about murder, why not throw Hitler into the mix? This day had already hit rock bottom. “So I don’t think you can really say murder leads to better creativity or vice versa.” I wanted to add something along the lines of: So I wouldn’t go killing your wife just yet. But I thought better of it.

Felice clapped his hands together. “But isn’t it fascinating to think about? That the two parts of one’s psyche can coexist like that?”