Page 164 of Ricardo

“Do you care about him?”

The question steals my breath.

“Yes,” I say.

His eyes close for a moment.

When he opens them again, he looks exhausted.

“Then I hope it was worth it.”

I flinch again as if he struck me.

Regret flashes across his face, immediate and painful.

But he still opens the door.

“Dante—”

He just shakes his head and shuts the door behind him.

I stand in the middle of my living room, staring at it.

My apartment is silent.

The wine sits untouched on the coffee table. The pillows are still in place. My phone is still face down, waiting for the call I promised Ricardo I would make.

I lower myself onto the couch slowly.

My hands are shaking now.

I told myself anger would be better than distance.

I'm not sure that's true anymore.

What have I done?

Chapter Twenty Two

Ricardo

The front door opens hard enough that I hear it all the way in my study where I am waiting for Julia to call.

Instead, I hear my son’s voice from the foyer.

“Where is he?”

Marisa answers him, calm but wary. “Dante—”

“Where is my father?”

I stand.

A second later, Dante appears in the doorway of my study.

He looks like the physical embodiment of anger. Hair disordered from his hands, coat still on, eyes bright with something far worse than temper. Hurt sits beneath it, raw and exposed, and seeing it on my son’s face sends a sharp, cold blade through my chest.

“Leave us,” I say to Marisa before she can follow him in.