45. Antonio

Cristiano is pacing my bedroom when I open the door. He’s gray. His eyes filled with pain. Sorrow. Apprehension.

“What happened?” I ask, knowing whatever it is, it’s bad. Very bad.

He doesn’t say a word for several seconds. The crippling silence is veiled in doom, echoing off the walls. If it goes on any longer, I’m going to shake him.

“What happened?” I demand, forcefully this time, even though I really don’t want to know. I just want to go back and sink into the bath and get lost in Daniela.

The knot in his throat bobs. “Your mother’s plane never landed in London. Air traffic control lost contact with them somewhere over the Atlantic.”

The words are tangled in a thick, viscous muck, and it takes me…I don’t know how long…to process them.

Your mother’s plane never landed in London. They lost contact with air traffic control over the Atlantic.

No.

My mind reels. Ghastly images stumble over one another. I open my mouth, gasping for air, but there doesn’t seem to be any in the room.

“I’m sorry,” Cristiano says somberly. His mouth is still moving, and words are coming out, but all I hear is They lost contact with air traffic control over the Atlantic.

My mother. The woman who stood between me and my father, weathering his fists so that I wouldn’t have to suffer. The woman who was finally, finally happy.

Instead of sorrow, rage consumes me. It’s a venomous hate snaking through my body, sucking up brain cells as it slithers.

Stop! Just fucking stop.

I can’t allow myself to get mired in emotion. Not if I’m going to do her any good.

I draw a breath. And then another, until I can speak. “What do you know?”

Cristiano cracks his knuckles. “Nothing more than I just told you.”

“Anything from Will?”

“That’s how we heard about the plane. He tried to call you.”

I pick up my phone from the dresser. A half-dozen missed calls, and messages. While I lounged in a bubble bath, fingering my wife, my mother was killed. Maybe murdered.

Not now.Later. Plenty of time for self-loathing later.

“I’m going to get dressed, and I want to go to the site of the crash.” I glance at him. “Immediately. Make it happen.”

“We don’t know that there was a crash.”

Bullshit. He doesn’t believe that any more than I do.

“Planes don’t disappear into thin air over the Atlantic. This isn’t a sci-fi movie. Pinpoint the location where the plane was last heard from, and figure out how to get me there.”

Cristiano has something to say, but he wisely nods instead.

The bathroom door creaks, and Daniela peeks her head out. Her face barely registers.

“Go,” I tell him, as she slips into the room wrapped in a robe. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Cristiano nods and leaves without another word.

“What’s wrong?” Daniela asks, following me into the closet.

I can’t with the questions—even from her. I just want to be left alone so I can think.

“Air traffic control lost contact with my mother’s plane.” My mouth is bone-dry, and I struggle to get the words out.

“What does that mean?” she asks, like she’s having trouble processing the news, too.

I can’t help her. I’m still trying to wrap my own head around it.

“Antonio,” she murmurs, reaching out to me.

“Not now.” I jerk away. “I’m in a hurry.” And I need to stay focused on locating that plane.

And you’ll encourage me to find refuge in your arms. I can’t do that right now, no matter how much I want it.“If you want to help, leave me to do what I need to do.”

The phone rings. “One minute,” I growl, answering.

I turn to Daniela. “You are not to leave this house without permission from either Cristiano, Lucas, or me. No one else gets a say in the matter. If you chose to ignore this order, I will hold your guard personally responsible for the transgression, and you’ll be the one to break the news to his wife and children that he’s never coming home.”

I have no fucking idea what happened with that plane, and until I know, this place is on lockdown. I will not lose her, too.

Daniela pulls her robe tighter, but she’s become so accustomed to my mercurial moods, she’s not fazed. Although there’s pity in her eyes that I can’t bear to look at.

“Antonio,” she says softly as I storm out of the closet.

I don’t stop for her, because I don’t have time to spare.

“I love you,” she says in a clear voice, wrapped in warmth and goodness.

The words hit me squarely in the chest, leaving a raw, tortured wound. “It might be better for you if you didn’t.”