Page 67

As a preventive measure against hurling my phone across the room, I dump it on the sofa beside me but I can’t stop the rage coursing through me.
The thought of Friedrich speaking to her that way, and of her having to pacify him because of me, makes my blood boil.
She walks out of the kitchen that same instant, and I’m tempted to call her over and demand an explanation, but that would be me telling her that I wiretapped her calls.
“You have a comfortable mansion, which your nice Porsche can take you to in thirty minutes. Why did you decide to stay here instead?”
I’m already pissed, and in no mood to start an argument with her, so I just shoot to my feet.
“You have a father who cares so much about you. It would be rude to decline his genuine offer.” My hands brush against the worn leather of the couch as I pick my phone up.
With Mendez missing and Donald Henshaw dead, I need some time to clear my head−somewhere away from my own residences. So this is my getaway plan, but of course, I don’t mention it to her.
“Any father would do that…”
“Not my father.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Your father is a good man; cherish him. If I were you, I would worship him. Many fathers didn’t even want their children, let alone love them.”
“You’re speaking of your father.” It’s not a question, but the sudden softness of her voice stops me in my tracks. “Was it him who’s responsible for all those scars on you?” The soft crunch of her footsteps tells me she’s walking towards me. “Oh, Elio, what did you ever do to him?”
“I existed.” I turn around to look into her large eyes, now dimmed with something I would never accept from anybody else: Pity. “The man loathed me because he had me.”
“But why? Didn’t he want kids?”
She places a hand on my arm, leading me back to the couch I stood up from.
“I don’t know what he wanted, but I know what he didn’t want: responsibility besides himself.”
She opens her mouth slightly, a gasp escaping her lips.
“What about your mom?”
“My mom was given to him because her dad owed my dad’s family…” She clamps her palms over her mouth. “The man never loved her and always treated her like dirt. He would go out to gamble with money my mom gave him, and if he lost it, it was her fault.”
A lump forms in my throat as the memories come flooding into my head. “Then, when I was born, he expanded his transfer of aggression. According to my mom, he beat her a lot when she was pregnant with me to get rid of me. And then, when I was seven, Dad brought home a pregnant woman. He used to beat her, too, but not as much as Mom. He hit me and Mom so much that it became very weird on days when he didn’t−like the day Cortez was born.”
Her eyes widen with shock. “Cortez?”
A small smile touches my lips as I nod. “Yes. He’s my half-brother.”
“So he became more considerate after Cortez was born? I mean, your father?” Her eyes reach to hold mine as a furious growl rolls past my throat.
“Considerate? Princess, he doubled over into a vile beast. Cortez… his mother didn’t stay long after he was born. She ran. My mother tried her best to look after him as an infant… to look after the both of us.”
My voice has lost its ability to deliver a smooth speech. All these years, I thought I had grown past the excruciating pain attached to this memory, but now I know, it’s only been hiding under my seemingly perfect composure.
“W... what happened to your mom?” Her voice is soft now, almost a whisper.
“He killed her.” There’s no smoother way to say it. “He bashed her head against the sharp edge of a table when I was only thirteen. I believe he smashed her skull…”
A sharp gasp from Aria causes me to stop. Her fingers are curled into my shirt, tightening her grip on my arm as if she, too, can feel the pain in my heart.
“Please tell me someone called the cops,” she whispers shakily. Her voice is so low that I have to bend my ear to her lips to catch them.
“Hate to break it to you, but no one did.” A brief, unexplainable spasm of laughter hits me. “Even in that last moment, there wasa smile on her face. Cortez was yelling his lungs out, so my dad picked him up and took him out. I never saw him again. He was only six.”
A tear slips down her pearl-colored cheeks, sliding down the curve of her chin.
“I’m so sorry, Elio.”