An Inheritance of Shame(61)

Restlessly Angelo settled into his seat. The obvious answer was she didn’t love him, never had, just as he’d first thought. She’d convinced herself, perhaps, that she loved him, the him she’d plucked from her own head. He hadn’t lived up to that sappy fairy-tale prince, so here he was, flying back to Sicily alone, about to take over more of the Corretti holdings. This morning, after Lucia had left, he’d arranged several private meetings with the shareholders he thought most likely to cave. He could have control of Corretti Designs by this evening. Lucia’s leaving had just made him more determined to dominate Corretti Enterprises.

I’ll show her.

He stilled in his thoughts, felt his insides curl in something like shame. He sounded like a little boy. He was acting like a little boy…like the little boy she’d claimed he still was, looking for love.

And she gave it to you. She’d asked him to let it be enough, and he’d told her it wasn’t. She wasn’t.

Resolutely Angelo set his jaw and stared out the window. Lucia had asked too much. He couldn’t give up this. He couldn’t imagine what life would look like if he did. She wanted to talk about emptiness? He’d be a damn void if he let go of this. Of revenge, of proving himself, of finally, finally—

Finally what?

Would acquiring one more Corretti company—or two, or a dozen—really make a difference? Would he feel satisfied then, complete? Happy?

He sat back in his seat, his jaw bunched so tight his teeth hurt. He knew he wouldn’t. And yet even so he could not imagine giving up, letting go—because that thought was still more terrifying than the emptiness he lived with every day.

Lucia gazed around at the tiny bedroom in the hostel near the Gare du Nord where she’d gone after leaving Angelo that morning. It was a far cry from the palatial suite at the Georges Cinq, but it would have to do. It was within her budget, at least.

Angelo, she knew, had been shocked that she had insisted on leaving right then. He’d thought she was making some grand gesture, but it had been simpler, and more awful, than that. She was simply preserving her sanity. She couldn’t spend another moment in his company, never mind return to Sicily in his private jet, and not break down. Beg for him to take her back, just as her mother had her father.

How many times had she curled up into a ball in her bed while she heard her mother’s noisy sobs from downstairs, her father’s gruff replies? And then the slamming of the door, and her father disappeared for a week, a month, however long his money lasted until he was back, to her mother’s shaming joy, for more. And then he’d left for good…just as Angelo had.

Except you were the one to leave. You walked away before he could.

A ripple of unease shivered through her, and she tried to shrug it off. She’d made the right decision; she knew she had. As long as Angelo was bent on proving himself in this awful, twisted revenge there was no way a relationship would work. She knew that, had felt it.

And yet—

Did you have to push him so hard? So far? So quickly?

Restlessly Lucia rose from her narrow bed and opened the door. The hallway of the hostel reeked of sweat and boiled vegetables, and she felt as far from home as she ever had. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back quickly as she strode towards the front door. Too late for regrets.

She spent the next few hours wandering around Paris, lost in a haze of her own misery and doubt. She could not shake the feeling that she’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

But what choice had she really had? To go back to Sicily and watch as Angelo ruined the entire Corretti family or died trying? Watch him become more bitter, more determined—and emptier all the while? The end would have happened, sooner or later. She’d just hurried it along.

That’s why you pushed him. You were still protecting yourself.

Trust was a choice, and she hadn’t trusted. She’d pushed Angelo towards an impossible ultimatum because she was still afraid he was going to walk away. So afraid—and so she’d made him.

She might have told him she was acting out of love, but she hadn’t been, not really. She’d been acting out of fear. She’d always been acting out of fear.

Gazing blindly at the Eiffel Tower in the distance, Lucia let out a choked sob. She had made a terrible mistake—and she didn’t know how or if she could fix it.

The last of the sun’s rays were streaking the sky, and just as before, the moment they’d faded the lights switched on, and the Eiffel Tower shone jewel-bright. She remembered how only last night Angelo had shown her, his eyes warm and bright with love. I’m so glad I saw it with you.