A Legacy of Secrets - By Carol Marinelli Page 0,36

her mother always had the Italian radio on. The one thing Ella had been able to do for her mother, to make her life a little more pleasurable, was to get satellite television so that she could watch the Italian news, which Gabriella did, all of the time. ‘I remember only too well Salvatore’s sons...’

‘Carlo and Benito?’

‘Morto!’ her mum said. ‘I still remember the night they died. My sister rang and I turned on the news.... Don’t you remember?’ And a memory unfurled then. Ella would have been about twenty. She could see her mother standing by the television screen, shouting, a huge warehouse fire being shown on the news. It had meant nothing to Ella at the time, but it meant so much more now. She listened more carefully than she had back then as her mother spoke of that night. ‘It was no accident, whatever anyone says.’

‘They were killed?’ Ella felt a shiver run down her spine.

‘Who knows?’ Gabriella said. ‘They have a lot of enemies. Some people said it could have been an insurance scam that went wrong. These are the people you are dealing with—you should remember that at all times.’

‘Santo is nothing like that,’ Ella said.

‘Please,’ her mother scoffed. ‘He is Carlo’s son. He could be no other way. Carlo was obsessed with power, with money, with women—he could not stay faithful to his wife for even five minutes. Oh, but he was a charmer too.’ Maybe Santo did take after his father after all. ‘Salvatore was the worst.’

‘Did he cheat too?’

‘Who knows?’ Gabriella said again. ‘He was just pure bad—the Battaglia family too. How they ever slept at night with their consciences...’ Gabriella said. ‘Their wives were as bad too. Lording over everyone as if they were royalty, holding their fancy dinner parties. Your aunt worked in the kitchen of Salvatore’s wife, Teresa, once for a dinner party. Their money was filthy—you ask your aunts. They will tell you—oh, the stories you will hear....’ Then her voice cracked as a huge pang of homesickness hit. Gabriella missed her sisters so very much, but it wasn’t just them. She missed her home, her village and her history too. ‘I wish I could speak with them. I mean, I know we speak on the phone but I want to see them. I wish I could be there when you all meet. I want to show you my village....’

‘Mum...’ Ella’s voice was thick with unshed tears. ‘Why don’t you come over?’

‘Please, Ella, you know it is not possible.’

‘Just for a holiday. I will pay your airfare...’ But Ella stopped then. She was just repeating herself and, given it was her mother’s birthday, Ella didn’t pursue it further. She didn’t want to upset her today. ‘I’ll go and visit everyone soon and give them all your love.’

‘Let me know when you go, so I can ring them and tell them to expect you.’

‘Okay.’ Ella could not manage upbeat even a single second longer. ‘I really do have to get to work now. I love you, Mum.’

‘I love you too, Ella. Do you want to speak with your—’

It was Ella who hung up.

She was actually shaking with anger as she did so. That her mother could even suggest that she speak with her father after all that had gone on, that still she was supposed to pretend that terrible day had never happened.

Yet it had.

She could not break down again, but she could no longer pretend to forget either. She looked into the mirror, lifted her hair and saw the pink scar. The scar was proof that that day had happened. It was even there when she smiled. Those lovely white teeth had come at the most terrible price. Ella could still remember spitting her own teeth into her hand, but worse than that was the memory of the betrayal—that her mother could have forgiven him and stayed.

That she could watch as her own daughter was beaten and, instead of calling the police, had stood there sobbing and screaming. Instead of calling for an ambulance, she had handed Ella ice packs and told the story to give to the dentist, to the doctor. Had told Ella that if she didn’t want to make it worse for her mother, then she must tell everyone that she fell.

Ella needed to get out, to walk, to run. It was the reason she opened her door, for she would never have opened the door to Santo in this state. She wasn’t crying, but