43. Chapter 43

43

I laria leaned her head against the backseat and watched the city lights blur as they drove. Soren's hand, warm and reassuring, enveloped hers, their grasp laying between them on the seat. Rowan was driving, with Elowine in the front passenger seat. The mood could best be described as subdued.

His hand squeezed, and she turned her head to look at him. His ever observant eyes scanned her face. She saw a tiny bit of worry reflected there, but mostly she saw relief.

Relief that she also felt mixed with sadness. Relief that the ordeal with Vincent was finally over; and sadness that it had escalated to such an extreme. There was certainly no satisfaction to be had with such a conclusion.

But Vincent had found his peace at the very end, which gave her some measure of optimism. Optimism that even long-standing enmity and resentments could be resolved in an instant.

She just hoped that Galen didn't decide to pick up Vincent's burden. Whatever Vincent had finally let go of was better left alone.

The end of this ordeal also meant that Soren would be going back to Edinburgh, and this realization contributed more to Ilaria's heartache than she cared to admit. It was truly over, and both of them had their respective lives with which they had to move on. There were no "what ifs" or "shoulds" or "coulds". They were both adults, and they would deal with the situation at hand with as much grace they could muster.

Nor would Ilaria burden him with the knowledge that she loved him—had always loved him—because that would only create unnecessary "what ifs".

Rowan pulled the SUV into the driveway of her parents' property, where Ilaria had left her phone, laptop, and car when Vincent had taken her. She also wanted to let Silas know she was okay.

"You and Elowine head on back to the house," Soren said to Rowan. "We'll take Ilaria's car back."

Ilaria waved goodbye, with one last thanks to them for putting their lives at risk to save her. Then she let herself out of the backseat.

A niggling thought tugged at the back of her mind that she hadn't satisfactorily answered the question of her parents' murderer. Vincent had insisted he wasn't responsible, and at the time he was very convincing. But he wasn't exactly trustworthy, was he? He was probably lying. He had the motive, after all, and the means. It had to be Vincent who had her parents killed.

So with that resolution, everything was tied up in a neat little bow.

Ilaria and Soren walked through the front door of the building and went straight for her own office. Her things were exactly where she had left them. She closed the lid of her laptop and tucked it into her work bag. Then she grabbed her handbag and phone.

A soft noise caught her attention. She looked at Soren and then called out, "Silas? Are you here?"

"Oh, Ilaria, I didn't hear you come in." Silas slowly shuffled out of his office, which was dark. "Thank goodness you're okay."

As Silas came forward to hug her, Ilaria tried to hide her shock at Silas's appearance. Even though she had seen him earlier in the week, he seemed to have aged overnight. His gray hair was thinner, his eyes looked sunken, and dark smudges encircled below his eyes.

"Silas," she frowned. "It's after midnight. You should be in bed."

"I couldn't sleep." His voice had a deep weariness. "I was worried about you."

Soren leaned against the wall near the front door, his expression wary.

"Hey, I'm fine, as you can see," Ilaria said lightly. "But you're not looking so good yourself. Why don't you go home? I'll lock up."

"Did Vincent really take you?" Silas asked.

"I was hoping to have this conversation tomorrow," she muttered. She sighed, seeing no way around it. "Maybe you should have a seat." She pulled up one of the reception chairs for him.

As he sat down heavily, Ilaria continued. "He did take me, Silas. He…had a whole plan to remove my father so that he could take over himself. He had an entire drug manufacturing operation that was going on for years. And he tried to kill Galen with a lethal dose of the drug." The whole story sounded preposterous even to herself. "He abducted me to lure Soren so he could also try to kill him too."

Silas stared at her, speechless.

"Sorry, I didn't feel like dragging out the whole story at this time of night," she mumbled.

"Where is Vincent now?" Silas's voice grew hoarse.

"He's dead," Ilaria said quietly. "Galen killed him."

Silas slumped in his chair and shook his head. "How did we get here?" He was almost speaking to himself.

"He said he wasn't the one who had my parents killed," she continued, "but I think he was lying. He wanted Dad and me dead so he could take over the family."

Silas shifted watery eyes to Ilaria. He opened his mouth, but the words seemed caught. "Ilaria, can you humor an old man for a few minutes? Come sit next to me."

"Uh, okay," Ilaria said tentatively as she pulled up another chair to face Silas. "Is something wrong?" Soren went to stand behind Ilaria's chair, his hand on her shoulder.

Silas went quiet for several long beats, gaze far away. "My father died when I was five, and my mother worked odd jobs here and there." His voice was gravelly. "She never made enough money to have a full meal on the table. Her paychecks would only buy half a loaf of stale bread every day. No meat, no butter."

Ilaria had never heard this story before and had no idea where it was going or how long it would take. "Silas," she interrupted gently. "Is this something we can talk about tomorrow? I'm about to fall over, and you look like you're going to do the same."

Silas reached over and patted her hand. "I know it's late, sweetheart, but please humor me. I promise I'll be quick." He paused to remember where he left off. "So I learned to steal. Pickpocket. Not from the folks from my neighborhood, who were nearly as poor as I was. But rich folks. People who wouldn't notice or care about a missing watch or a few dollars because they had so much.

"I was only seventeen when I met your grandfather. It was winter in Chicago. He was casually walking down the street in my part of town. Rich folks never came to this part of town. If they did, it was because they were lost and didn't realize where they were. And there was your grandfather, strolling down the street like he owned it. He was wearing a thick wool coat. I remember exactly what it looked like. It was tan, and it fell down below his knees. It cost more than what most people made in a year. Everyone who lived in that neighborhood could barely afford jackets."

Despite herself, Ilaria was riveted to the story. Behind her, Soren's hand was reassuring as it kneaded her shoulders.

"I decided that if a rich guy like him was too stupid to know not to come into this part of town, then he didn't deserve to have any cash, and I would just be doing him a favor by taking it off him. So my friends and I ran our usual scheme. They would create a commotion to distract him, and I would bump into him and relieve him of whatever was in his pockets."

Silas's face had softened with nostalgia. "It was textbook perfect, the way we ran it. But as I was walking away, Antonio called out to me, calm as you please. He said, ‘That was nearly perfect. I almost couldn't tell you took my watch and my wallet.' He didn't even look mad. He was more amused than anything."

Ilaria's eyes were glued to Silas's face.

He shifted in his chair. "Something kept me from running. Maybe it was because he seemed to see through me. He certainly knew what I had done, but he didn't even seem to care about the things I took. I didn't know at the time that he was a master pickpocket himself. Antonio walked toward me, slowly, with his hands up. As if to keep me from running. He said, ‘You can keep whatever you took. Go buy yourself a good meal. You look like you could use it.' And then he said, ‘But if you ever want to rise above petty theft, earn a real living, and never go hungry again, come to this address tomorrow at eight A.M. sharp.' He handed me his card."

Silas paused, his throat working, as he stared past Ilaria at his memories. "And I did the smartest thing I ever did in my life. I went to the address, got there at seven fifty-eight A.M. Your grandfather took me under his wing. Taught me everything, and I mean everything, about his business."

Silas's eyes met Ilaria's. "Your grandfather saved my life. Literally plucked me off the streets and saved my life. I owed him everything. From then on, there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for him. He could have asked me to kill someone and I wouldn't have thought twice."

Ilaria's brows lifted. She didn't realize the extent of Silas's loyalty to her grandfather. She watched his face as he told the story, amazed at how he looked younger as he relived his memories.

Silas's gaze met hers. "You were very young when your grandfather died. And I don't think Stefano talked about this aspect of him. But Antonio was very…protective of the family. He pretty much only trusted Italians." He held up a hand. "Now, he was perfectly cordial to everyone, but the people who really earned his trust, the people who he felt deserved his time and attention, were Italians."

Ilaria wracked her memories of her grandfather. She had only been five when he died.

"Your father was the designated heir," Silas continued. "That was never in question. But when he met a Scottish woman who he insisted on marrying, Antonio was livid. Your grandfather tried to lay down an ultimatum, threatening to name Vincent as the heir."

Ilaria's eyes went wide. She had definitely never heard this part of the story.

"But Stefano didn't care. He loved your mother. He was willing to give up control of the family. And in the end, Antonio still wanted your father to succeed him. So your grandfather learned to accept Meli. And when he stepped down and your father took over, he accepted that it was with your mother by Stefano's side."

Silas rubbed his forehead. His eyes dimmed. "But separately, Antonio continued to warn me about outsiders. By then, having been Antonio's advisor, I automatically became Stefano's when he took over."

His face took on a troubled expression. "They were so different, Antonio and Stefano. Antonio had old-fashioned ideas and was very proud of his Italian culture. Stefano was modern and liberal. He wanted inclusivity. He wanted to hear new ideas.

"Antonio was fine with inclusivity and new ideas in theory, but not in practice. And certainly not when it came to the business. He didn't want Stefano to incorporate new ideas, new ways of doing things. And his biggest fear was that Stefano would take on partners who were not steeped in the Italian way of doing business, and it would influence the family's traditions. Worse, that he might even cede some control to these partners."

Silas's expression showed distress.

Ilaria put a hand on his arm to comfort him. "Silas, why is this worrying you right now? My grandfather is long gone, and Dad since grew the family business a hundred-fold. So hasn't it all worked out for everyone's benefit?"

He clenched his teeth, and he looked down at the floor. "Antonio talked about it to me constantly. He was adamant that Stefano not lose control of the family business to outsiders, especially non-Italians. He told me under no circumstances am I to allow Stefano to bring on any such partners."

Silas's face turned red, and he suddenly leaned his hands on the armrests and surged out of the chair. He paced.

Ilaria rose from her chair as well, sending a worrying look at Soren, whose brows were furrowed.

"I was so loyal to Antonio," Silas continued in a low voice, staring down at the floor as he paced. "There was nothing I wouldn't do for him. So when he gave me those instructions, I listened. And I watched. And I did my best to advise Stefano accordingly. I loved him. I was there the day he was born. After Antonio died, I saw myself as Stefano's surrogate father, that it was my responsibility to show him the right way. I wanted to continue to abide by Antonio's wishes. I advised Stefano in a way that would protect the family. I did my best." His voice trailed off, as if he was now talking to himself.

"When Stefano said he was thinking of taking an investment from the MacGregors, I was terrified. This was Antonio's worst nightmare happening."

Ilaria started to feel dread in the pit of her stomach. She had never seen such an expression on Silas before, one of absolute fear. Soren's shoulders stiffened, and his hand gripped hers.

"I couldn't let it happen." Silas's voice turned guttural. "Antonio's words rang in my ears constantly, telling me not to let it happen. And—" His voice broke. "Stefano wouldn't listen. No matter how much I pleaded, he wouldn't listen. He said, ‘Times have changed, and my father's been dead for years. His wishes are no longer relevant.'"

A single tear fell down Silas's cheek. "But I knew that wasn't true. Antonio's wishes were timeless: always protect the family. Not to make decisions that sway with the wind."

He went silent, no longer pacing but still staring at the floor, lost in memory.

After a long beat, Ilaria tried to step forward toward Silas, but Soren's grip on her hand held her in place. "Silas?" she whispered.

"Vincent didn't have your parents killed," Silas finally whispered.

Soren had a vice grip on her hand.

Ilaria's heart pounded as she stared at Silas. "How do you know?"

"I did it."

Soren let out a low growl.

Her heart stopped. She blinked at Silas. "I don't think I heard you right."

Silas looked up and met her gaze, eyes bleak. "It was me, Ilaria. I had your parents killed."

The wind choked out of her, and tears sprang into her eyes. She swayed on her feet and would have fallen over if Soren hadn't put an arm around her, steadying her. With his other hand, Soren pulled the gun from the back of his waistband and pointed it at Silas.

"Stay right there," Soren snarled.

Silas didn't blink at the gun pointing at him. Tears now streamed down his face. "But after it was done, I realized I had made a mistake. A grave mistake." He started to sob, covering his face with his hands. "He was like my own son. And I killed him."

"I don't understand," Ilaria said, voice breaking. "You killed my parents all because of some advice my grandfather gave you decades ago?"

"It wasn't just some advice," Silas replied sharply. "It was to protect the family. That was his main priority."

"But…Dad did always protect the family," Ilaria argued. "He never would have jeopardized the family. The partnership with the MacGregors would have only helped us."

Silas closed his eyes and shook his head. "I was afraid that taking money from them would give them undue influence, which was everything your grandfather warned against. Even if Stefano thought he was making good decisions, he would have been influenced by an outsider."

"But why did you also want to kill me too?" Ilaria's chest hurt. Tears wet her face.

A sob broke out of him. "As much as I didn't want to, I-I thought that was for the best. You would have gone ahead with the partnership, while Vincent never would have." He swiped at his eyes. "When I realized my mistake, I called off the hitman."

Silas, who she had known since she was born, who was like a grandfather to her, who she had trusted completely, had betrayed them. "If anyone has hurt the family, it's you." She uttered the words with as much venom as she could convey.

"I know." The desolation showed on his face.

"Would my grandfather have wanted this?" Rage was pouring out of her. "For you to kill his son in the name of the family? How is that loyalty ?"

Ilaria wanted to rail at him. She wanted to pummel him with her fists. To hurt him like he had hurt her parents, had hurt her.

She saw Silas clearly for the first time. He was no longer the infallible, grandfatherly figure she had known all her life, the one to whom she always turned to for calm, sagely, unerring advice. He was just a man, an old, feeble man. Weak in many ways, loyal to a fault, and led by his beliefs that allowed him to interpret whatever her grandfather had stated in the most extreme way that justified his horrific actions.

Silas was bowed over, hands on his knees, as if he didn't have the strength to stand up straight. "I'm sorry. I know you'll never forgive me."

"Forgive you?" she spat with contempt. "Would my father forgive you? Would my grandfather?"

He took in a shuddering breath, head down. "No. No, they would not." He slowly stood up straight. He reached behind him and pulled out a gun. "That's why I have to do this."

Ilaria gasped. Soren pushed her behind him. "Put the gun down," he growled slowly.

Silas lifted the gun to his temple. "I made an unforgivable mistake."

"Silas, no." Fury still flooded through Ilaria, but she was so tired of death. "You're taking the easy way out."

He gave her a half smile. "Because I'm a weak man, and that's what weak men do. I cannot live with myself." He took a long breath. "Let's be honest. In order to avenge your parents, you would have the right to kill me. I'm just saving you from having to do it."

Tears ran down her face. He was right; she had the right, but she didn't know if she could have carried it through.

"For what it's worth, Ilaria, I love you. I loved your father, your grandfather, Vincent. It was an honor to be part of your family."

Ilaria said nothing, only turned to the door and walked outside. Soren followed her.

As the door closed behind them, she heard the gun inside go off. Her legs buckled. She had loved Silas her entire life. He did an unforgivable thing, but love didn't just turn off in an instant.

Soren caught her and held her as she cried.