for the rest of his life.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it? Your mother died when you were a toddler. Your father closed ranks on all his children but especially with you. He kept you protected far beyond what any normal person would consider to be appropriate and all because you were a girl. If you’d been a boy your childhood would have been different and you knew it, so you became a boy to please him because you thought that’s what he wanted.’
She shrugged, gave the side of her belly one last massage and set off again.
‘Not quite. I saw that men were considered better than women and I would never be respected unless I made sure I never behaved like a girl. I didn’t want to be a whore and I knew I could never be a Madonna so I became something entirely different that could never be interpreted as one or the other.’
‘You do know that being a woman doesn’t make you subhuman?’ he said. He hated to think Elena had grown up believing that the only way she could have any respect was by being other than she was.
Did she even know who she was?
‘Of course I know that.’
‘Women are no more whores or Madonnas than men are misogynists or feminists. We all have our own capabilities and desires that are ours alone.’
She didn’t answer, seemingly concentrating on the pathway ahead of them.
Now that the sun was up, the streets were getting busier with workers bustling to their places of employment, dog walkers and other early birds.
‘We’re nearly home,’ he said, spotting a trattoria that was open for business. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’
They took a seat on an outside table and gave their order, both ordering a cappuccino and a chocolate pastry twist. The owner brought them a glass of water each with a, ‘You look like you need it.’
Elena wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. As far as Gabriele could tell, it was the only sign of perspiration on her, whereas his T-shirt was damp.
‘How often do you see your father?’ he asked conversationally. She’d spoken to him daily since their first morning in Florence when Ignazio had offered to fly his jet to Florence and rescue her.
She’d played her part beautifully, insisting she didn’t need rescuing and that she was blissfully happy with her new husband.
When she’d hung up the phone, she’d looked at Gabriele and said, ‘I really hate you.’
‘I hope one day you understand that I’m not the monster you think I am,’ had been his entire response.
Other than that, for a couple who considered each other criminals, they got along surprisingly well.
Now she said, ‘I see my father about as much as you see your mother. I take care of Europe while he deals with Asia and South America with my brothers.’
‘Who runs the North American division?’
‘That’s only a minor aspect of the business now. We sell components to car manufacturers there but our design and manufacturing teams are based in other countries.’
‘They never used to be. When we emigrated your father created many divisions in the US. They’ve all been closed down and moved elsewhere—Brazil’s his favoured place of business now.’
‘And your point is?’
‘How often does your father visit the US? When was the last time he set foot on US soil? When did any of your brothers last visit?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t keep tabs on them.’
Their cappuccinos and pastries were brought out to them. As soon as they were alone again, Gabriele continued with the conversation.
‘Does your father ever mention visiting the US?’
‘No.’ She swallowed a bite of her pastry and fixed narrowed eyes on him. ‘What is it with all the questions?’
‘Has it never occurred to you that there may be a reason your father doesn’t visit the US any more?’
‘No, and I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to poison my mind against him.’
‘I don’t want to poison your mind,’ he said quietly. ‘All I want to do is open it.’
Her green eyes suddenly fixed on him. ‘Does this mean you believe that, whatever happened between our fathers, I had nothing to do with it?’
Her words resonated. ‘Does this mean you accept that I was innocent?’
‘I asked first.’
He took a long sip of his cappuccino, staring at the face that was becoming as familiar to him as his own.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered heavily. ‘It’s inconceivable to me that you could not know of your father’s criminality...’
She closed her eyes slowly, her shoulders slumping.
‘But,’ he continued, ‘the more I get to know you, the harder I find it.’
‘You have doubts?’
‘Many of them.’
‘I can’t persuade you either way, can I?’ she said sadly, then shook her head and looked back at him. ‘I believe in your innocence.’
He found his throat closing, making a response hard. ‘Why?’
‘The more I get to know you, the more I know you wouldn’t go on a vendetta for no good reason. You believe my father to be the guilty party and a part of you still thinks I’m involved too.’ Her eyes were steady as she said, ‘But it doesn’t excuse what you’ve forced me to do. Nothing will ever excuse that. I might believe in your innocence but don’t think for a minute that I forgive you because that will never happen.’
‘I haven’t asked for your forgiveness. If your innocence is proven then I will apologise and hope for it,’ he answered evenly. ‘But let us not get carried away—you yourself admit the proof of your innocence doesn’t exist.’
* * *
Elena stood under the hot stream of the shower and waited for the heavy pour to soothe her wounded heart. Until that morning, they’d both studiously avoided any conversation about her father or family in general and she wished she hadn’t risen to the bait. She didn’t want to spend their marriage at loggerheads and discussion simply opened raw wounds.
What she hated Gabriele for the most was the doubts he put in her mind.
The daily calls to her father had become excruciating. It didn’t matter how often she told him everything was great, he didn’t sound convinced.
What she hated hearing in his voice was the underlying panic. Because she couldn’t trust it. She appreciated her marriage had been a shock to him but she definitely
