“Have you told him how you feel?”
“No,” I answer quickly.
How can I confess my feelings when I have no idea what’s going on inside his head? It’s too big a risk. Things are good between us. Great, even. I never thought going into this marriage that I’d actually enjoy being married. So am I going to ruin everything by pushing for more?
Mrs. Messero seems to read my mind. “You have to be patient with him. He’s not good at expressing emotions or even understanding how he feels.”
Don’t I know it. “Why is that?”
Mrs. Messero glances at her feet. “He had a very difficult childhood.”
The childhood that I know nothing about. “Can you tell me about it?”
She grimaces, her eyes still fixed on the ground. Foreboding seeps like rot inside my bones.
“Rafaele was a sweet young boy,” she says quietly. “Good-natured, gentle, and curious. Everyone loved him. But his father never saw him as a child, only as a future don.”
She reaches inside her purse, takes out a folded handkerchief, and dabs it under her eyes. “Rafe saw things he shouldn’t have. His father used to beat me. Sometimes, he did even worse. One night, Carlo was very unhappy with me. I can’t even remember why, it was always one thing or another, but he started hitting me. I remember hearing the door open, and it was my sweet boy. I’ll never forget the sound he made when he saw me on the ground. It was the most horrible sound I’ve ever heard.”
Blood drains from my face. I’d walked in on a similar scene only a few months ago with Papà and Gemma. Even as an adult, it was a hard thing to process. But to see something like that as a kid?
“When Carlo saw the tears on Rafe’s face, he got even angrier. I thought maybe seeing the horror in his son’s eyes would make him rethink what he was doing, but it turned out to be the opposite. He grabbed Rafe and shook him. ‘Why are you crying, you stupid boy? I didn’t raise a crybaby.’”
My stomach sinks. God. And I thought my father was horrible.
“Rafe kept crying. I wanted to go to him to console him, but Carlo pushed me away from my son. He told Rafe that until he learned to control his emotions, he’d keep hurting me.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God.”
“From then on, he’d drag Rafe into the bedroom while he beat me. Whenever Rafe cried, his father would hit me harder. Carlo taught Rafe that emotion was weakness. Empathy was weakness. Attachment was weakness. He taught him that those things should be repressed and rejected at all cost.” Her skin turns a shade of gray. “And it was only when Rafaele managed to w-watch his father h-hurt me…very badly, without shedding a tear that he deemed my boy ready for his training to become made. He was eleven.”
Her last sentence is no more than a pained croak. I shift closer to her and wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Mrs. Messero, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been. For both of you.”
She gazes into the distance, her pain etched into her weathered face. “The sad thing is that it was what saved me. With Carlo’s focus completely on Rafe, he let me take the girls to our home in the Hamptons, and we lived there for most of the year. My husband rarely drove down to see us. We had peace there. And when the girls got older, I convinced Carlo to send them to a boarding school in Geneva.”
I swallow. It’s all starting to make sense now.
A tear streams down her cheek. “But Rafaele paid the price. Carlo molded him into a weapon. Cold, ruthless, withdrawn. I know deep down he still loves us, but he’s careful not to show his affection for me, Elena, or Fabi. And how can I blame him? He understood Carlo would see it as a weakness and use it against him and us.”
“His sisters don’t know?”
She shakes her head. “His sisters were too young. The only thing they remember is their brother being closed off with them whenever they came home. He’s always kept them at a distance. They dislike him for it.”
“Why not try to mend their relationship now?”
She turns to me. “Some conversations are so difficult to have… Maybe it’s better not to have them at all.” Emotions flicker in her eyes—pain, regret, and love. Love for her son. A son who was torn away from her by an evil man.
She presses her lips together. “Rafe won’t be happy if he finds out I told you. But I want you to know. I want you to understand him.”
I nod, my throat tight and scratchy. “Thank you. I think I’m starting to.”