Page 165 of Ricardo

She hesitates.

“Now.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line, but she obeys, pulling the study door closed behind her.

Dante laughs once, bitter and humorless. “Of course. Send her away. Wouldn’t want witnesses.”

“Lower your voice.”

His eyes flash. “Do not tell me what to do.”

I stay where I am behind my desk because if I move toward him, he will take it as a challenge. If I soften, he will take it as pity. There is no right way to stand in front of a son you have wounded.

“Julia told you,” I say.

His face twists. “Yes, Julia told me. Alone, by the way. Very brave of you,” he says sarcastically.

“She insisted on telling you herself.”

“And you let her.” He steps farther into the room. “Of course you let her. Why be the one to face me when you could let her sit there and take the first hit?”

My jaw tightens. “You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did.”

The words strike hard, but I don't let it show.

Dante’s gaze moves over me, over the room, over the house he has known since we came to Chicago. His home and mine, suddenly foreign to him.

“A week,” he says, jaw tight.

“Yes.”

“I've seen you since then.”

I nod. “Yes.”

“You looked me in the face and said nothing.”

I inhale through my nose. “We wanted to hold off on telling you right away.”

“Right away?” he says. “You think the problem is timing?”

“No.”

“Then what is the problem, Papà? Explain it to me. Since the two of you apparently had time to discuss my reaction, my feelings, and the best way to feed me the truth.”

“I did not want this hidden from you.”

“But you hid it.”

“For a short time.”

He laughs harshly. “Listen to yourself.”

I do.

I hear the weakness in the defense before the words finish leaving my mouth.