There was no expression at all on Vincenzo’s face, but a fierce light burned in his midnight eyes. ‘Lucy,’ he said softly.
‘And you’re right,’ she went on, because she had to say it now. ‘I am a criminal. I’m guilty of all those crimes I committed for my dad. But mainly I’m guilty of being the reason for her death. If I’d only listened to her, if I hadn’t been so curious, so s-stupid, if I’d just done what I was told, Dad wouldn’t have found me. He wouldn’t have got so angry. And he wouldn’t have tried to hit me, and then Mum wouldn’t have died. I killed her, Vincenzo. It was my fault.’
Of course it is. And you deserve everything that’s coming to you.
Fear came bubbling up at the insidious voice inside her head, a black wave of it, and she had to turn away, unable to face Vincenzo’s dark gaze and the judgment that would no doubt be there, sticking like a splinter in her heart.
She didn’t know when his opinion of her had begun to matter so much, but it did, and she couldn’t bear it. She didn’t want the way he looked at her or treated her, with so much gentleness and kindness, to change, yet it would, and she couldn’t avoid that.
She deserved his condemnation, not soft candles, and delicious food, and a warm bath.
Face it like your mother faced her death, coward.
Lucy swallowed and lifted her head, determined now, forcing herself to look into his eyes. Because her mother hadn’t hesitated to put herself in physical danger to protect her, and so she couldn’t hesitate now.
‘I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Vincenzo,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘But I don’t deserve it. Not any of it.’
She’d prepared herself to meet his judgment—that much was clear from the look on her face. And, given how pale she’d gone, it was obvious that she was expecting that judgment not to be in her favour.
He hadn’t meant to have this discussion with her, not here, not now. But that was his own fault. He’d been the one to ask her why she’d escaped when she had. And, of course, she’d answered him with her customary honesty.
And he wasn’t sure what horrified him more: that she blamed herself for her mother’s death or that she expected him to blame her as well.
You told her she was guilty, that she was a criminal.
That was true, he had. But how could he think she was either? After that?
Her little chin was lifted, her eyes shadowed behind the lenses of her glasses, the green lost in the darkness. She was brave to tell him what she had. And it had cost her. He could see the cost in the gleam of tears she was trying not to let fall, that fogged her glasses, and in the tension that surrounded her.
She’d sat up so straight on the stone bench, telling him in a steady voice about her mother’s death. About how her mother had defended her, protected her, and in the end bled to death right in front of her. And for that, Lucy blamed herself.
‘I don’t deserve it. Not any of it...’
She was a criminal and she was guilty. The crimes she’d committed for her father couldn’t be erased. But what she wasn’t guilty of was her mother’s death.
‘How old were you when that happened?’ he asked carefully.
‘Seven.’
Dear God. She’d watched her mother die at seven...
His heart contracted painfully tight. He wanted to put his wine down, cross the space between them, gather her into his arms, take the pain he saw in her eyes away with his touch. But he had to make this clear to her first.
The law was a logical thing and emotion had no part in justice. And he wanted her to know, unequivocally, that, from a legal standpoint at least, she was blameless.
‘And did you stab your mother with that piece of glass?’ he asked.
She blinked. ‘No. She fell against the window because Dad hit her.’
‘She died of blood loss, yes?’
Lucy nodded and he could see her swallow. This was so very painful for her. Her jaw and shoulders were so tight. She looked very fragile, so very vulnerable.
His heart contracted even tighter, but he ignored it.
‘You could not have killed your mother, Lucy,’ he said in a neutral voice. ‘If you had picked up a piece of glass and stabbed her with it, then that would be a different story. But you didn’t.’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t listen. I should have—’
‘You were seven,’ he cut across her gently. ‘You were a child. What seven-year-old listens to everything their parents tell them?’
The look on her face was bleak. ‘She was afraid and yet she still protected me. She stepped in front of Dad and took the blow meant for me. And if she hadn’t she wouldn’t have fallen against the glass and—’ Her voice cracked.
Vincenzo put his glass down then and rose from his chair, giving in to his own instinct, because the sight of those barely suppressed tears... He couldn’t sit there, letting her cry, and not offer any comfort. He couldn’t.
Crossing to the bench she was on, he sat down and pulled her into his arms before she could protest, holding her the way he had days ago in his office in London.
Immediately she turned her head, burying her face against his chest, her shoulders shaking in a silent sob, and it made him ache that her instinct was to turn to him for comfort. It made him want to hold her tight, protect her, be deserving of the trust she’d put in him.
He disentangled her momentarily to take her glasses off so they didn’t hurt her, laying them down on the arm of the bench next to him, then he gathered her in his arms once more and held her close, stroking her thick, glossy curls.
‘She was only doing what any mother would,’ he said. ‘She was protecting her child.’ His own mother, for all her faults, would have done the same. But not out of any maternal instinct. She would have done it for her own ends, not his.
‘Sometimes I don’t understand why.’ Lucy’s voice was muffled. ‘Sometimes all I can think is why? Why did she protect me? What was it about me that was worth dying for? And if she hadn’t protected me, then she wouldn’t have died and maybe other people might not have got hurt. My father might not have used me—’
‘You cannot think like that, civetta,’ he interrupted quietly. ‘The past is something you can’t change, so there is no point in going over all the what-ifs and might-have-beens. You did not kill your mother. She made a choice to protect you and she made that choice because she loved you. If you are going to assign blame to anyone, assign it to your father. He is the villain here, not you.’
‘A villain I worked for. I did everything he told me to and if I hadn’t been so afraid...’