An Inheritance of Shame - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,53

knew he felt like he’d been dismissed, rejected by a Corretti. What she saw in Gio Corretti was a grudging respect for a self-made man like Angelo, but Angelo hadn’t seen it.

‘Angelo…’ she murmured, and he shook his head, shrugged off her arm.

‘Let’s go.’

As relieved as she was to get out of there, she didn’t like the way he seemed about to stomp off, pulling her along with him. ‘Don’t you think—’

‘I’ve done what I came to do,’ Angelo said flatly, and reaching for her hand, he led her swiftly out of the ballroom.

They didn’t talk until they were in the Porsche, speeding back towards Palermo, the night inky-black all around them.

‘What was that all about?’ Lucia asked quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did you bring me there, Angelo? Why did you go yourself?’ She shook her head, bewildered, uncertain, starting to get angry. ‘You certainly didn’t go because you enjoyed the experience.’

‘Did you?’ Angelo tossed back, and she leaned her head back against the seat.

‘No, not at all. But does that really surprise you? I’ve never—’ She stopped suddenly, and Angelo glanced at her with narrowed, knowing eyes.

‘You’ve never what?’ he prompted softly.

‘I’ve never wanted to be in that kind of crowd,’ she finished, choosing her words with care. ‘Have that kind of life.’

Angelo arched an incredulous eyebrow. ‘You’ve never,’ he stated disbelievingly, ‘wanted more out of life than making other people’s beds, cleaning their damn toilets—’

‘It’s a job, Angelo. It’s respectable, it pays—’

‘There’s more to life than a job.’

‘Oh, yes, there is. There’s love and family and children and happiness.’ Her throat clogged and her chest hurt. She didn’t know how they’d got into this argument, but she had a gut instinct that the only way to get out was to wade through. She swallowed hard. ‘But I don’t think you meant those kinds of things.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Angelo stared straight ahead, flexed his fingers on the wheel. The night-shrouded landscape passed by in a blur of black. Lucia closed her eyes. She didn’t like where this conversation was going. He didn’t say anything else, and she thought they might spend the entire journey back to Palermo in this stony silence. A question burned in her gut, churned its way up her throat.

‘How much money did you lose?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I think it does.’

Angelo threw her a quick, irritated glance. ‘Why? I have plenty. And you don’t even like me to spend it on you, so—’

‘It’s not about the money.’

‘What, then?’

She shook her head wearily. ‘Perhaps you should tell me that.’

‘Stop talking in riddles, Lucia—’

‘Then you stop putting me off,’ she retorted. ‘You didn’t bring me to the Corretti Cup as a date, did you, Angelo? You didn’t even buy me that dress or want to buy me those ridiculous diamonds because you wanted to please me or make me happy.’ It was all becoming horribly clear, like wiping the steam from a mirror. Slowly, surely, she could see the whole, awful reflection.

‘Why do you think I did, then?’ Angelo asked in a colourless voice.

‘Because you wanted to show me off. Show yourself off.’ Lucia spoke mechanically; she felt weirdly lifeless, almost as if she didn’t care about it any more. ‘You went to the Corretti Cup to thumb your nose at all the Correttis you still hate, even though it’s been fifteen years since you left. Even though you probably have more money than they do now. That’s why you bet on the losing horse, isn’t it? Just to show you could lose however much money and it didn’t matter.’ More mist cleared; the reflection sharpened. ‘And that’s why you bought the hotel.’ The realisation lay heavily within her. ‘What are you trying to do, Angelo? Ruin them?’

‘Anything that happens to them, they deserve.’

‘They deserve? Does anyone deserve to be ruined? Why are you even angry at them, Angelo? It’s your father you’re really angry at and he’s—’

‘Don’t,’ he said in a low voice, ‘talk about my father.’

‘Why not?’

He let out a low breath and shook his head. ‘I just don’t want to talk about him.’

Lucia sat back against her seat and closed her eyes. She felt utterly drained, her mind numb and empty. She should have thought about this, she realised dully. She should have expected this. She remembered how angry and bitter Angelo had been as a child; had she thought he’d changed?

That was why she didn’t like all this power and wealth, she knew now. It really wasn’t about the money. It was about the reason,