Page 93 of The Red Queen

Giovanni pointed his gun at his son and emptied the chamber.

Desi turned her face against Dino’s chest. Not because she couldn’t handle the carnage. She’d done much worse herself, but because she couldn’t stand watching as Giovanni destroyed a piece of his soul. No matter how awful Antonio had been, Giovanni was his father. That would never change.

Giovanni walked away from the wreckage and the flames, his shoulders slumped.

Tears streamed down Desi’s face, and she pushed away from Dino, who finally let her go. She met Giovanni halfway, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head against his heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His arms tightened and he held her as his son’s corpse turned to ash.

Chapter Forty-One

Giovanni sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his wife. It amazed him that his feelings for her had developed so quickly, in a matter of months. Then, she was an amazing woman, so maybe he should’ve expected it. She didn’t know it, but he was a slave to her. He would do anything for her.

She was curled on her side, sleeping soundly. One hand was tucked under her pillow while her other arm was curved loosely over her waist with her hand on her belly. He touched her, placing his hand over hers, covering it completely. His was much larger, his fingers thicker. His rings, symbols of his place within his family and organization, looked barbaric next to her skin.

Desi would normally wake to even this light touch, but she was recovering from her ordeal.

Their ordeal.

His son was dead.

He still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. Even as his and Antonio’s relationship had deteriorated over the years, he always held the belief that they would reconcile, that one day Antonio would finally take his place at his father’s side.

For all of Antonio’s hotheaded, bad decision-making, he’d been Giovanni’s son. As a child, he’d been a sweet boy, partial to his mother, which wasn’t a surprise since Giovanni had spent most of his time away on business during Antonio’s formative years.

Though Giovanni knew his son was responsible for his own actions, he still felt guilty. Maybe if he’d been around more in Antonio’s youth or taken better care of him after his mother’s death. Antonio had taken her death hard, but so had Giovanni. When his grief waned, he realized his son was drifting away, lost in a sea of anger with no place to vent, until finally, his ire settled on his father.

Antonio had blamed him for everything. For Antonia’s slow descent into the arms of cancer, for not being there on the day of her death, for not giving up his own life and crawling into her grave. Antonio didn’t understand. Giovanni and Antonia had been promised to each other; a mutually profitable mafia merger. They’d grown to like each other, even love each other, but Giovanni had never felt the deep well of passion for Antonia that he did for Desi.

Perhaps that was the reason Antonio kept going after Desi. She symbolized Giovanni’s readiness to move on with his life. For years he’d lived in a shrouded mausoleum, half-living and burying himself in work. Then Desi came into his life, shaking everything up.

He felt her stir when she moved her hand. When he looked down at her, she was blinking away the heaviness of sleep. She saw him sitting on the bed next to her and alarm creased her features. Pushing herself up, she reached for him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, all traces of sleep vanishing. “Has something happened?”

“No,amore,” he was quick to assure her. “All is well. It’s still early yet. Go back to sleep.”

She shook her head and shoved waves of messy dark hair off her face. She was beautiful while also being adorable with her messy bedhead. He smoothed her hair back and kissed her forehead.

“Did you get any sleep?” she asked huskily.

He shook his head and looked away from her. “No.” Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Antonio dying in the flames. Sometimes screaming for help, sometimes dead on the ground.

Desi reached for him, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s not your fault,” she murmured, holding him tight. “You couldn’t have saved him.”

Giovanni shook his head and pushed Desi back gently, not ready to accept her comfort. “Parents are responsible for their children, and I failed mine. I failed to see the depth of his pain and how he’d twisted it into such rage. Even when I saw it, I protected him. There are so many things I could have done differently with him and didn’t.”

“I don’t accept that,” Desi argued. “Antonio was an adult and responsible for his own actions.”

“We don’t stop being parents once our children grow up, Desi,” his voice hardened.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “We can offer support and love, but parents aren’t responsible for the actions of their grown children. What could you have done? Forced him into your dungeon? Forced him to love and respect you? No, Antonio was heading in his own direction, and unfortunately he was going the wrong way.”

“You’re simplifying it,” Giovanni said sharply.

“Si, I know,” she said passionately, clutching his hand and lifting it to her chest. “But the grief that you’re feeling is misguided, turned inward. What use does self-flagellation do if you can’t turn back the clock and change things between you and your son?”

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