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“Where did you learn Italian?”
“We were almost based here at one point when I was a child, so my mother prepared me for that.”
That’s Mom—always prepared.
She studies the fond smile on my lips before admitting, “I recognize you. From the church.Padrewas…”
“Staring at me?” I don’t enjoy lying, but it’s required now: “He’s a fan.” Not a full lie…
“A fan?”
“I’m an author.”
“Truly?” A wistful sigh escapes her when I nod. “Once upon a time, I used to want to write stories.”
“It isn’t too late. That’s the joy of writing.” It’s now or never… “I had a friend,once upon a time, whose husband would leave bruises like those on her cheeks…” As expected, she freezes. “He ended up murdering her.”
“I-I had better go,” she mumbles, gathering her things together and surging to her feet.
Before she can, I snag her hand, look straight into her eyes, and whisper, “What if I could help you get away from him?”
She releases a bark of laughter. “There’s no ‘getting away.’ Til death do us part…”
“You don’t have to divorce him to escape him. You’re not the only person he hurts.”
Her brow instantly furrows. Unlike Diana’s mother, who was complicit in her abuse, this woman straightens her shoulders before perching on the edge of the bench. “Who are you?”
“Someone who is concerned for you and your niece.”
There’s no way I can tell her my source, but I don’t think I’ll need to.
Her head whips around to face me, eyes wide, lips parted with horror. “My niece?”
Slowly, I nod.
“He… hurts her?”
“Yes. You didn’t know?”
Her mouth tenses. “You think I’d let him?—”
I study the bottle in my hand. “Some would.”
“I didn’t. My God, she’s only a child.” Her throat bobs as she presses her fingers to her trembling lips. “Barely fifteen. He…?”
“Yes,” I answer her silent question. When a sob escapes her, I assure her, “I can help you.”
“Both of us? She lives with us. God, I?—”
“Both of you.”
“I’ll kill him,” she growls, switching from a meek mouse to a furious lioness, determined to protect her cub. “She’s lost her parents, and now this? I’ll, I’ll, I-I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll do something!”
I grimace at her, thinking of how I’d disturbed Savio in the act of doing ‘something,’ and even as guilt fills me, I pat her knee. “Sometimes, the best form of revenge is to be happy.”
“What?!”
“He will be alone and miserable unless you go to the police…”