A Moment on the Lips(58)

He pulled away. ‘No pity.’

‘It isn’t pity. It’s sympathy. Which is completely different.’

A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘What I hated most was that all the neighbours knew. They knew. They talked about it, but they did nothing. They didn’t call the police; they didn’t tell any kind of authority; they didn’t take him to one side and tell him to stop.’

‘Maybe they thought he’d take it out on your mum even more if they interfered,’ she suggested quietly.

‘But they did nothing. They didn’t offer her a safe place or try to help her. They just talked about her.’

He’d told her a little, that night they’d gone dancing, but she’d had no idea just how bad it had been. And the one thing that shocked her was how he really believed the worst of himself—that he was like his father. But she’d seen no evidence. ‘You’re not your father, Dante.’

‘No, but I have his blood. I have a violent streak.’

‘No way.’ Dante was incredibly controlled. ‘The only time I’ve ever seen you lose control …’ She felt her face heat. He’d been babbling her name. Completely vulnerable. ‘No. You’re not violent.’

‘I keep myself in check. Most of the time,’ he added wryly. ‘When I was thirteen, I saw my father hitting Rachele. By then, I was almost as big as him. Big enough to do something to stop him. I broke his arm.’

And he thought that made him a thug? ‘Dante, you didn’t do it because you were enjoying hurting him. You were trying to protect someone who was vulnerable and stop him hurting her. You did the only thing possible. Words wouldn’t have stopped him, would they?’

‘That’s not the point. I reacted on gut instinct—I did things the same way he did things. Violence. I can’t forgive myself for that.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘And there’s worse. He fell under a tram, the following year, one night when he was drunk. And when I heard the news, I wasn’t upset that he’d died. I was glad. Really glad.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Worse still, I wished I’d been there to push him under the tram.’

‘I think anyone would, in your shoes.’

He shook his head. ‘Only someone with my father’s bad blood. And that wasn’t the only time I hurt someone. Rachele … she made the same mistake as my mother. She thought Niccolo—Fiorella’s father—loved her. That her love would change him, make him into someone decent.’

Carenza gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Are you saying that he hit her?’

He nodded. ‘When she was pregnant.’

‘Oh, Dante.’

‘And when I found out, I went round to see him. I pinned him against the wall. I could see the fear in his eyes, smell the sweat pouring off him. My hand was against his throat. I could’ve crushed his windpipe.’

‘But you didn’t.’ She didn’t need to ask. She was absolutely sure that Dante wouldn’t do that.

‘I managed to keep control. Just. But it was so thin, like gossamer—one wrong word from him, and I would’ve snapped. I would’ve killed him.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, because that’s not who you are. And he’d hurt Rachele. You’re her brother. Of course you weren’t going to ignore what he did and let him get away with it.’

‘But violence isn’t the way to fix a problem. I was wrong, Caz. I told him if he laid another finger on her, I’d break every bone in his body—twice. And I meant every single word.’ A muscle clenched in his jaw. ‘I twisted his wrist hard enough to almost break it. To make sure he knew I meant it.’

‘You were protecting your sister, Dante.’

‘With the wrong sort of protection. I should’ve called the police, supported Rachele while she made a statement, made sure that he …’ He shook his head. ‘I dunno. Got psychiatric help, to sort him out and make sure he didn’t do that to anyone ever again. But I didn’t. I did things my father’s way, with fear and threats and I actually hurt him.’ He blew out a breath. ‘And that’s why I … why this has to end. I can’t trust myself. And I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You’re hurting me by ending this,’ she pointed out.

‘That’s nothing compared to what I might do to you. Supposing the restaurant chain fails? Supposing I end up like my father, taking out my frustrations on you—or, if we have babies, on our children? I can’t take that risk. I just can’t. Don’t ask me to try.’