Chapter 27 27

Chapter 27 27

Days turned to weeks, and Isabella could not bear to look at her brother. She saw him, or else felt him. Passing her in the hallway, or else from her room to the library. At the dinner table, when she was able to make herself eat. She could not bring herself to look at him, nor speak to him, and her very breath filled her with shame. The shame grew and solidified in her chest. It felt as if stones had been placed on a chest, and Isabella could no longer draw breath. Giovanni knew, though he never mentioned it. She would catch him watching her, amber gaze intent behind her, and his knowing burned her. Did he know? Could he see? He watched her eat less, forcing herself to chew and swallow to keep Mrs. Russo from discerning the strain within her.

She left, pushing her plate away under the guise of fullness. Again she was withering away; her clothing sagged on her frame. She could not bring herself to do any of the things that mattered to her. Not paint; it was impossible to make something beautiful when the man she loved was a monster. Not read; the words on the page danced. Not go to the garden; it felt stained with some heinous crime. Just be. Hollow and desolate.

Mrs. Russo tried to talk to her. “You need to eat, child. You need to take care of yourself.”

Isabella could not respond. Could not explain that taking care of herself felt wrong. That she did not deserve care or comfort or anything good. Chiara watched her with something like satisfaction. She would smirk when she saw Isabella’s hollow eyes and gaunt face. And she sensed that Isabella had learned something that had broken her completely. And Giovanni just kept his distance. As if he knew better than to talk. As if he knew she needed space to process whatever she had discovered. Isabella certainly did not, but despite her devastation, or maybe because of it, she continued on. She needed to know everything. Every detail. Every truth. No matter how much it hurt.

She found more documents hidden throughout the library. More evidence of what had happened that night. Photos of the crime scene that she ran to the bathroom to vomit. The blood. So much blood. The bodies covered with sheets. The outline of where Giovanni had been found, barely alive. She found testimonies from Giovanni himself. Statements he had given to the police once he was well enough to speak. That when he had woken up the night of… whatever it was.

The absolute terror he had felt when he heard gunshots. The sound of his mother screaming. His little brother crying. The desperation with which he had tried to get to them. To save them. To do something. The men who had held him down. The knife at his throat. The pain. The blood. The darkness. And then he woke up hours later in a hospital bed. Alone. Everyone he loved gone.

Reports of the crew. All of them professional killers. Men who took contracts. Men who murdered for the money. Her father was one of them. Not the leader, but he was the critical man. The one who drove them away. The one made sure they escaped. Made sure they got away clean, so they can get their payment. She found that Marco Bellini had been killed three years ago. Shot in his apartment in Rome. Paulo Rossi two years after that. Found him drowned in the harbor in Naples. And Antonio Greco just a couple of weeks ago. Found him shot outside her gallery. That left one man still alive. Stefano Costa. Location unknown. One more man from the crew that killed Giovanni’s family.

One more Giovanni was hunting. And her father. Lorenzo Vinci. He was found dead four months ago. The timeline made sense. It all makes horrible, perfect sense. Giovanni hunting his family’s killers one by one. Making them suffer. Forcing her father to give up his daughter. Breaking him before killing him anyway. Three weeks after Isabella broke.

She was again in the library. Surrounded by the conclusions and the paperwork in front of her. The documents on the desk. The photos she wasn’t supposed to look at again but couldn’t stop staring at. The police reports overflowing with facts and clinical descriptions of the nightmare. And she just stared at it all. Numb and drowning.

The door opened. Isabella did not need to look up. She did not care who it was. And then she heard his voice. “

You found out.” Giovanni. She still could not look at him. Could not move her eyes from the covered little boy. Giovanni continued entering the room. She heard the door slam. His footsteps on the carpet. Not coming closer. He was just standing somewhere behind her. “For how long?” Finally, he asked.

“Three weeks,” Isabella’s voice was hoarse.

“And you did not say anything.” It was not pronounced as a question.

“What is there to say?” Isabella’s voice cracked. She turned back to him. “My father killed your family. My father helped to kill your parents and covered a seven year old boy’s body with a blanket. What words are there?” Giovanni was silent for a moment. His hands were down. His posture was harsh.

“I did not know if you would find out what happened. I did not know if you would ever know the truth,” Giovanni said. “The part of me hoped you never did. Hoped you just stayed in ignorance.”

“What.” Only then Isabella stood. Her legs were weak. “What do you mean?”

Giovanni’s expression was utterly unreadable from behind the mask. “Because knowing destroys you. And despite everything, despite my revenge, despite what your father did, I find I do not want you destroyed.” The words lay heavy in the air between them. Unexpected.

“But I deserve to be destroyed,” Isabella whispered. Now tears were running freely down her tearing face. “I am his daughter. His blood is in my veins. My sins are his.”

“No,” Giovanni said. He took a step toward her and another. “Your blood is your own. Your life. Your sins if we must call them that. His sins are not yours.” But Isabella shook her head again and again.

“I defended him. I vowed to avenge him. I called you a monster for ending his life when he deserved everything you did to him and more. I stood in your office and screamed that I would make you pay. How can you look at me? How can you accept me in your house?” Giovanni reached her and Isabella saw something new for the first time in his eyes. It might have been compassion.

“Because you did not know,” he said, “and even if you had known, you would not be responsible for war crimes committed by your father. You were a child when he left them. You played no part.”

“But I am a part now,” Isabella said through the sobs. “I am the price of your revenge. Your punishment. I understand. And I—” She could not speak. She could not make the sounds form.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry,” she said and let the words hit the night air like a gunshot. “I’m sorry for what he did. For what you lost. For the boy you once were who watched your family die. For the years of your life you’ve spent hunting them. I’m... so... so sorry.”

It was an endless confession of guilt and grief and it came out in a rush, the words tumbling in a broken voice from Isabella’s lips. Giovanni stood with her and listened, rigid and unresponsive. She cried until it was hard to stand. Finally, when there were no more words and she had nothing else in her to say, he spoke.

“I don’t want your apology,” he said, and his voice was like a physical blow. And of course, he wouldn’t. Because what good was an apology against what her father had done? What good was sorry when he was still dead? But there wasn’t anything left for Isabella to say. There wasn’t anything left at all.

“But I need you to understand something,” Giovanni continued when the silence seemed to stretch too long. His voice was quiet now. Almost gentle. “Your father was a monster, Isabella. He was a monster, you hear me? What he did was... was unforgivable. But you’re not him. You’re not responsible for his choices. For his sins.”

“How can you say that?” she asked. Desperation made her voice sharp. “How can you separate me from him when I’m all that’s left of him? When I’m the only piece of Lorenzo Vinci that still exists in this world?”

“Because I’ve watched you,” Giovanni said. “I’ve watched you for months now, Isabella. And you’re nothing like him. You feel guilt for things you never did. You grieve for people you never knew. You’re carrying a shame that isn’t yours to carry, Isabella. You’re full, where he was empty. You’re warm. He was cold.”