Page 34 of Legacy of Deception

We walked to the door in silence. There was nothing left to say.

Marco dropped my hand and retrieved my purse for me, practically shoving it at me so we could get out the door faster.

“Hey, hey, Marco, do me a favor.”

Vito strolled over to us, grinning. Had he not been in the same room? What was there to look so pleased about?

Begrudgingly, Marco turned around and gave him the time of day I wasn’t so inclined to give. “What do you want, Vito?” He pulled on the back of his neck as though he was physically straining himself to continue any more conversation.

“Listen to Father, okay?” Vito put his hands in his pockets. “He’s not wrong when it comes to the company.”

I rolled my eyes but left this particular matter to Marco, just as I imagined I always would when it came to that ridiculous business of theirs. It was the very thing that tied them together and ripped them apart. The irony of it wasn’t lost on me personally.

“And what about when it comes to interfering in someone’s personal affairs?”

Almost every emotion had been drained from my body.

“Just make sure the public thinks this is your baby. Both of you.”

I felt lifeless.

“Is that what he was lecturing us about inside?” Sarcasm dripped from his every word. “Good thing you summed that up for me.” Marco shook his head. “Why don’t you save your speeches for your wife? Where is she anyway?”

That was literally what being around the Delucas did to me—it sucked me dry.

“Elisabetta had pressing issues to take care of.”

Didn’t they get tired? It must’ve been exhausting to keep up the pretenses.

“Don’t you worry one day you’ll go home to an empty house?” With his question lingering in the air, Marco turned his back toward Vito. Still holding my hand, we were already halfway out the door.

Nothing else was said. Nothing else needed to be said.

One day I would become numb to all of this, and I wasn’t sure whether I was looking forward to that day or fearing it.

Chapter 14

nothing left but erosion

MARCO

The Deluca family mausoleum at the funeral home in Staten Island was more inviting than the crypt I’d just come from. Entering that house was like using cold steel as a blanket come winter. Listening to the stony silence was like taking an icy blade to the earlobe. But the deepest cuts that had been made came from the razor-sharp frost of Santo’s mouth.

Frustrated, I gripped the back of my head. With each step I took toward the wet bar, I thought about how I felt like the embodiment of an inferno. Anything that came out of my mouth was only going to be like a rush of liquid hellfire. “Son of a bitch.” My intention had been to reach for the scotch glass to pour myself a goddamn drink, but screw intentions. Instead, I picked up the glass and hurled it toward the fireplace. The shattering glass sounded like a cascade of violent chaos, and a surge of adrenaline consumed me in a satisfying way.

Brooklyn stood still in the corner of my eye. She didn’t flinch or jump or move a muscle. Her expression didn’t change. It was both unsettling and comforting. Two completely different things she somehow made me feel at the same time.

Clearing her throat, she finally moved to close the gap between us, her hand going toward a pristine bottle of VSOP Cognac, fingering it as she went. “Your father doesn’t think much of me, that’s for sure.”

“Of course not.” A hint of genuine laughter for the ridiculousness of the scenario dragged out of me. “You’re marrying the pawn. If you wanted more respect, you should’ve requested to choose your husband from my brothers.” Shaking my head, I didn’t look up from what I was doing. Instead, I continued to pull the cork out of the bottle of Strega. I itched for the bitter finish to scrape the back of my throat. “May I recommend Massimo or Rocco? My father seems to have a fondness for them. Naturally, neither of them are Vito, who is as good as it gets, as far as Santo is concerned. You know, now that I’m thinking about it, maybe even Lorenzo would’ve been better. He doesn’t necessarily like staying in one place for too long of a time, but he could take you places, travel—”

“Marco.”

Sympathy shredded through her voice, and I couldn’t handle something like that worming its way into my house. “Do you want a drink?” I asked, both in an attempt to be polite and in desperation for her to stop looking at me with the corners of her lips tilted downward. “What am I saying? You probably do, but you can’t have one. That seems to be the natural trajectory of the day, though. None of us are supposed to get what we want. Well, some are, but not us.” I threw back the drink, clenching my teeth and squinting my eyes as nothing more than an empty glass was before me.

“Marco.”

There was less sympathy and more warning in that one. It looked like we were getting somewhere.