An Inheritance of Shame(53)

‘Did you?’ Angelo tossed back, and she leaned her head back against the seat.

‘No, not at all. But does that really surprise you? I’ve never—’ She stopped suddenly, and Angelo glanced at her with narrowed, knowing eyes.

‘You’ve never what?’ he prompted softly.

‘I’ve never wanted to be in that kind of crowd,’ she finished, choosing her words with care. ‘Have that kind of life.’

Angelo arched an incredulous eyebrow. ‘You’ve never,’ he stated disbelievingly, ‘wanted more out of life than making other people’s beds, cleaning their damn toilets—’

‘It’s a job, Angelo. It’s respectable, it pays—’

‘There’s more to life than a job.’

‘Oh, yes, there is. There’s love and family and children and happiness.’ Her throat clogged and her chest hurt. She didn’t know how they’d got into this argument, but she had a gut instinct that the only way to get out was to wade through. She swallowed hard. ‘But I don’t think you meant those kinds of things.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Angelo stared straight ahead, flexed his fingers on the wheel. The night-shrouded landscape passed by in a blur of black. Lucia closed her eyes. She didn’t like where this conversation was going. He didn’t say anything else, and she thought they might spend the entire journey back to Palermo in this stony silence. A question burned in her gut, churned its way up her throat.

‘How much money did you lose?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I think it does.’

Angelo threw her a quick, irritated glance. ‘Why? I have plenty. And you don’t even like me to spend it on you, so—’

‘It’s not about the money.’

‘What, then?’

She shook her head wearily. ‘Perhaps you should tell me that.’

‘Stop talking in riddles, Lucia—’

‘Then you stop putting me off,’ she retorted. ‘You didn’t bring me to the Corretti Cup as a date, did you, Angelo? You didn’t even buy me that dress or want to buy me those ridiculous diamonds because you wanted to please me or make me happy.’ It was all becoming horribly clear, like wiping the steam from a mirror. Slowly, surely, she could see the whole, awful reflection.

‘Why do you think I did, then?’ Angelo asked in a colourless voice.

‘Because you wanted to show me off. Show yourself off.’ Lucia spoke mechanically; she felt weirdly lifeless, almost as if she didn’t care about it any more. ‘You went to the Corretti Cup to thumb your nose at all the Correttis you still hate, even though it’s been fifteen years since you left. Even though you probably have more money than they do now. That’s why you bet on the losing horse, isn’t it? Just to show you could lose however much money and it didn’t matter.’ More mist cleared; the reflection sharpened. ‘And that’s why you bought the hotel.’ The realisation lay heavily within her. ‘What are you trying to do, Angelo? Ruin them?’

‘Anything that happens to them, they deserve.’

‘They deserve? Does anyone deserve to be ruined? Why are you even angry at them, Angelo? It’s your father you’re really angry at and he’s—’

‘Don’t,’ he said in a low voice, ‘talk about my father.’

‘Why not?’

He let out a low breath and shook his head. ‘I just don’t want to talk about him.’

Lucia sat back against her seat and closed her eyes. She felt utterly drained, her mind numb and empty. She should have thought about this, she realised dully. She should have expected this. She remembered how angry and bitter Angelo had been as a child; had she thought he’d changed?

That was why she didn’t like all this power and wealth, she knew now. It really wasn’t about the money. It was about the reason, the motivation. The revenge. The hard core of bitterness and anger Angelo would never relinquish. How could love flourish in such a heart? How could it even survive?

They’d reached Caltarione, and Angelo pulled up in front of her apartment. Tinny music and raucous laughter spilled out from the bar beneath. Lucia opened her eyes and saw Angelo staring straight ahead, his jaw bunched, his body tense.

‘I don’t even see why any of it matters,’ he said flatly. ‘It has nothing to do with us.’ Lucia just shook her head. She didn’t know how even to begin to explain. ‘Why does it bother you?’ he demanded, his voice harsh now. ‘It’s not as if any of the Correttis have ever done you a good turn, Lucia. Or as if you cared about them—did you?’ His voice hardened in suspicion, and Lucia turned to him slowly.