“Cleo!” A voice calling my name grabs my attention. It’s Loretta. She’s standing with an older couple in tow. I vaguely recognize them from the wedding. They must be her parents.
“Give me one sec,” I say to my sisters before I walk over to Loretta.
“Happy birthday, darling,” Loretta says. “You look beautiful. Doesn’t she, Ma?”
Her mother gives me a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “The skirt is a bit short, but what do I know.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I may have won over Loretta, but I guess her parents are a different matter. Whatever. I don’t care. It’s my birthday and my family is here. I’m not going to let this lady ruin my mood.
Loretta frowns. “Ma, don’t be rude. I told you Cleo’s really helping me with the shop. Why do you have to insult her?”
Surprise bursts through me. I wasn’t expecting Loretta to come to my defense.
“I don’t know what you mean,” her mother says, her cheeks turning pink. “You asked for my opinion, so I gave it to you.”
“Huh. You never seem to have those sorts of opinions about other hosts. Or at least you know well enough to keep them to yourself.”
“It’s okay,” I cut in, for once not in the mood to start any drama.
Loretta shakes her head. “No, it’s not okay. The only reason I’ve been able to pay back all of my debts is because of you, Cleo. I won’t have my own mother disrespect you like that.”
Loretta’s father clears his throat, his expression stoic. “Thank you for your assistance. It’s been a great relief to our daughter, and we appreciate the interest you’ve taken in the business. Right, Claudia?”
Loretta’s mom sniffs, her entire face flushed. “Of course,” she says, clearly embarrassed.
The tension in the air dissipates, and the older couple soon moves on to talk to other guests. I turn to Loretta. “Thank you. I’m touched. You didn’t have to do that.”
Loretta shrugs. “I’m just tired of this family hating on you. Besides, you’ve been a good friend to me.” She flashes me a small smile before heading off to greet another guest.
I rejoin my sisters and Mari, and Gemma asks if we can go into the house so she can use the bathroom.
“My bladder’s terrible these days,” she grumbles.
I nod. Better wait until tomorrow to bring up my dilemma with Rafaele. I’ll organize a lunch for just the four of us where we can talk without any interruptions.
When we return to the back terrace, Rafaele’s mother approaches me. I give the woman a careful smile. She hasn’t been around much, but I’ve seen her at a few of the family events Rafaele’s taken me to. I’m not sure where we stand though.
She kisses me on both cheeks. “Happy birthday, Cleo.”
“Thank you, I’m glad you could make it. What do you think of the party?”
“It’s lovely,” she says, a small smile on her face. “I just wanted to talk to you for a moment, if that’s all right?”
“Of course.”
She leads me aside, away from the chatter and laughter of the party. We stop in front of a small stone bench surrounded by potted plants. She sits down and pats the space next to her.
I brush my skirt under my thighs and take a seat. When I turn to her, her eyes are glistening with unshed tears.
My stomach hollows out. “Mrs. Messero, are you all right?”
She reaches over and squeezes my hands. “Yes, I’m just relieved, that’s all. I didn’t think I’d ever see my son in love. Thank you.”
My blood slows. Why would she say that? “Did Rafe say something to you?”
“No. But I can tell he loves you, Cleo.”
She’s just making assumptions. An awkward laugh escapes my lips. “I’m not so sure.”
She sniffs and gives me a watery smile. “Do you love him?”
Oh God. I haven’t even confessed my predicament to my sisters yet, but there’s something about how she’s looking at me that convinces me to open up. “Yeah, I think I do.”
“Have you told him how you feel?”
“No,” I answer quickly.
How can I confess my feelings when I have no idea what’s going on inside his head? It’s too big a risk. Things are good between us. Great, even. I never thought going into this marriage that I’d actually enjoy being married. So am I going to ruin everything by pushing for more?
Mrs. Messero seems to read my mind. “You have to be patient with him. He’s not good at expressing emotions or even understanding how he feels.”
Don’t I know it. “Why is that?”
Mrs. Messero glances at her feet. “He had a very difficult childhood.”
The childhood that I know nothing about. “Can you tell me about it?”
She grimaces, her eyes still fixed on the ground. Foreboding seeps like rot inside my bones.
“Rafaele was a sweet young boy,” she says quietly. “Good-natured, gentle, and curious. Everyone loved him. But his father never saw him as a child, only as a future don.”
She reaches inside her purse, takes out a folded handkerchief, and dabs it under her eyes. “Rafe saw things he shouldn’t have. His father used to beat me. Sometimes, he did even worse. One night, Carlo was very unhappy with me. I can’t even remember why, it was always one thing or another, but he started hitting me. I remember hearing the door open, and it was my sweet boy. I’ll never forget the sound he made when he saw me on the ground. It was the most horrible sound I’ve ever heard.”
Blood drains from my face. I’d walked in on a similar scene only a few months ago with Papà and Gemma. Even as an adult, it was a hard thing to process. But to see something like that as a kid?
“When Carlo saw the tears on Rafe’s face, he got even angrier. I thought maybe seeing the horror in his son’s eyes would make him rethink what he was doing, but it turned out to be the opposite. He grabbed Rafe and shook him. ‘Why are you crying, you stupid boy? I didn’t raise a crybaby.’”
My stomach sinks. God. And I thought my father was horrible.
“Rafe kept crying. I wanted to go to him to console him, but Carlo pushed me away from my son. He told Rafe that until he learned to control his emotions, he’d keep hurting me.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God.”
“From then on, he’d drag Rafe into the bedroom while he beat me. Whenever Rafe cried, his father would hit me harder. Carlo taught Rafe that emotion was weakness. Empathy was weakness. Attachment was weakness. He taught him that those things should be repressed and rejected at all cost.” Her skin turns a shade of gray. “And it was only when Rafaele managed to w-watch his father h-hurt me…very badly, without shedding a tear that he deemed my boy ready for his training to become made. He was eleven.”