Gemma nods. “We all saw how he looked at you on your birthday. Even his poker face couldn’t hide the fact that he adored you.”
I twist the stem of my glass between my fingers. “And the next day, I made a mistake. One fucking mistake. And it was enough to ruin everything? How is that fair?”
“It’s not fair,” Gemma says. “And Rafaele had no right to blame the situation on you.”
“I mean, it was a fucking mess, but you’re right. Why did he blame it all on me? It’s not like I climbed into Papà’s car knowing how everything would spiral.”
I leave the glass alone and lean back in my chair. “When we got married, I wanted nothing to do with him. I tried to get him to send me away by doing all sorts of bullshit, but he wasn’t fazed by any of it. I kept expecting him to lose it the way Papà and Mamma always did when I acted out—which, let’s be honest, was most of the time—but he took it in stride. He listened to me, and he built me up. He made me fall for him.” I give my head a shake. “And I was reckless, but that was because I thought Gem was in trouble.” I glance at my sister. “I love you, Gem. I’d do anything for you.”
Gemma’s lips waver. “I know.”
Rafaele made me feel like such an idiot for falling for my father’s trick, but what right did he have to do that? Couldn’t he understand why I did what I did? Apparently not.
“I don’t know what you guys think you saw at my birthday party, but Rafaele didn’t love me. He’s never loved anyone. He doesn’t get it.” A deep sadness pierces through my drunken haze. He may have felt something for me, but whatever it was, it wasn’t love.
“Cleo, I’m not sure that’s fair,” Gemma says quietly. “He put everything on the line for you when he thought you were in danger.”
“Yeah, and he obviously decided he never wants to do that again. I’m not worth it.”
Not worth losing his consigliere. Not worth putting his kingdom at risk. Maybe no one is worth all that, but I can’t help the anger that licks up my veins.
“Well, it’s his loss,” Vale says after a while.
Mari nods. “Exactly.”
I glower at my wine. “Fuck him.”
“Yeah, fuck him.” Gemma lifts her glass of water. “Cheers to that and to moving on.”
We clink our glasses, drink, and open another bottle of wine.
By the time we decide to wrap it up, I’m so drunk, I can’t even see straight. But when I fall asleep that night, I still dream of him.
CHAPTER 42
RAFAELE
Despite losing my consigliere, I somehow manage to bring the situation in New York under control in about a week.
Gino Ferraro comes to see the burned safe house and collects the bodies as expected. A few days later, I get a call from him saying he’s confirmed the corpses belonged to Nero and Sandro and that now things are even. Well, they’ll be even once I send him the twenty million dollars he asked for, which I do that same afternoon.
The feud between the Messeros and the Ferraros officially comes to an end.
With Vince Garzolo flying to New York and showing his support for me, the Garzolos accept me as their permanent new don. It helps that their old don died because he tried to kill his own daughter. Whoever wasn’t convinced Garzolo was a piece of shit before finally gets on board after that revelation.
There are many questions about Cleo and her whereabouts. There, I mostly stick to the truth. She’s with her sisters, recovering from what happened.
I tell no one about the impending divorce. In fact, I haven’t even called up my lawyer. Every time I dial his number, something holds me back. Something I haven’t been able to exorcise no matter how much I push my body at the boxing gym or how much I drink in the evenings.
It’s been twelve days since she left. Twelve days since I kicked her out of this house and out of my life.
Our last few conversations are a blur. When I try to remember the details, a gaping hole opens in the pit of my stomach. I’m starting to believe I said things I shouldn’t have, and that terrifies me.
I thought that without her here, I’d regain control over my emotions, but despite my face betraying nothing, it’s still complete chaos inside my head.
Something broke in me that day. Something I have no idea how to fix.
It’s after dinner time, and I wander through the empty house, my second glass of whiskey in hand. My feet carry me upstairs to our bedroom, where I can try and pretend she hasn’t left. Her purse is on the ottoman. A T-shirt that she used to sleep in, one of mine, is thrown over a chair. In the bathroom, her makeup is scattered all over her side of the vanity like she was just there, getting made up for an evening out.