Page 38 of Broken Trust

“It was Mia.” She says it flatly, like she's reading off a grocery list. “She came into the restaurant on opening night with Mamma. I slapped her first, if that makes you feel any better. She just hits harder than I do.”

I grip the doorframe so tight the wood bites into my palm. “What did she want?”

“Half of my restaurant.” Gia hitches the strap higher on her shoulder. “Apparently, since we were still married when I opened it, your share counts as one of your assets, and you signed every last one of those over to her. Ferri says she hasn't got a leg to stand on, because I bought the place after I filed, but she wanted to make sure I knew she'd taken a shot.”

The anger that rips through me is so strong I have to shut my eyes against it. Mia walked into the one dream Gia has ever built for herself, and tried to take it, and she used my name to do it.

“I'll fix it,” I tell her. “I'm calling Conti first thing tomorrow. I'll sign whatever he hands me, a statement, an affidavit, anything that says I have no claim to that restaurant and never will. You shouldn't have had to face any of that alone.”

“I'm getting used to handling things by myself.”

She aims it right under my ribs, and it hits.

She holds out the bag. “You left this. I kept meaning to mail it back to you, but there's a teething ring in there, and I thought you might want it.”

I take it from her, and our fingers brush, and even that small touch goes up my arm like a current. “You have no idea how much. She's been in agony all night. She only stopped crying twenty minutes ago.”

“I heard her from across the street. I've been standing out there for half an hour, trying to make myself knock.” Gia's eyes drift over my shoulder toward the crib, and something in her face softens so much that it's hard to watch. “Is she okay?”

“She's fine. Just teething.” I move aside. “Do you want to see her?”

She hesitates, and I think she's going to say no, but then she slips into the apartment and crosses the room on quiet feet. She looks down at Rosa sleeping with a fist against her mouth and her curls stuck to her damp forehead, and for a long time she doesn't say anything. She just stands there with one hand resting on the rail.

I watch her take it in. The mattress on the floor, the unfolded laundry, the bottles in the sink, the bills pinned under that jar. I wait for the pity, or worse, the satisfaction, and it never comes.

“You look terrible, Dante,” she says quietly, still watching Rosa.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. When did you last eat something that wasn't toast?”

“I don't remember.” I set the bag on the kitchen chair. “I saw the review in the Bologna paper, by the way. He said your ravioli was the best thing he'd eaten all year and your ragù made him call his mother. I walked past on Thursday and there was a line out the door.” I swallow. “And you look beautiful. Even with the bruise. You always did.”

She turns around slowly, and her eyes are bright and furious.

“No,” she says. “You don't get to say that to me.”

“It's the truth.”

“I don't care whether it's true. You lost the right to call me beautiful the first time you went to her bed.” Her voice cracks, but she keeps going. “Do you know how long it has taken me to be able to look at my reflection in the mirror? She’s my twin. I hated seeing the other person that tried to break me. The idea of the pair of you knowing Rosa was conceived….I can’t. I didn’t come here for this,” she says then turns to walk away.

“I never told her she was beautiful. Not once.”

Now, I just sound desperate. In a way, I am. Being poor doesn’t matter, as much as thinking about how much I hurt her.

“Oh, that's so much better.”

“That's not what I meant to say.” I take a step toward her and stop myself. “What I'm trying to tell you is that whatever was happening with Mia had nothing to do with how I saw you. You were never the problem. I was. I was a coward and a liar, and I wanted to be the kind of man who deserved you without doing any of the work, and when I couldn't manage it, I took it out on the one person who never gave up on me.”

She stares at me, her chin trembling.

“Then why didn't you wish me luck,” she asks, her voice cracking. “I opened my restaurant, the biggest night of my life, and I kept watching that door all evening like an idiot, waiting for something from you. A card, another letter, anything.”

“Because you'd finally let me go.” It comes out raw. “I figured the kindest thing I could do was stay out of your way and let you be happy for once, without me hanging over it.”

“Well, you were wrong.”

She says it so quietly I almost miss it. And then she's looking at me the way she used to across the kitchen table when we were kids with nothing but each other and a pot of pasta, and the whole room shrinks down to the three feet of floor between us.