Page 30 of Que Será, Syrah

Chapter 7

Allegra

“You said it had something to do with your uncle?”

It’s an innocent sounding question and, yes, I guess I did imply that, didn’t I? Still my mood takes a nosedive—and not in a sexy, Post Malone sort of way. “Kind of?” I reply, squirming slightly at the thought. I really don’t like thinking about that period of my life. “I mean, he said he’d buy me a ticket if I wanted to visit my mother. She lives in Italy now, with my stepfather and his family. They have a winery there. In Tuscany.”

Romero rolls his eyes. “Of course, they do.”

“It sounded almost too good to be true. So of course, like an idiot, I jumped at the opportunity.”

“Why do you say that?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and regarding me curiously. “That doesn’t sound idiotic at all. At eighteen? Who wouldn’t make that choice?”

“I guess. Maybe you’d have to know my family better in order to understand how really stupid it was.”

“Possibly,” he agrees. “And I admit that I don’t know your uncle well at all, but based on what I’ve observed this past summer, what you’ve told me, various claims your sisters have made; it does seem a little…out of character?”

“Perhaps,” I admit. “But…did I mention it was a one-way ticket?”

“Uh, no.” He grins back, ruefully. “You did not. I suppose that does change things, doesn’t it?” But a moment later, his expression changes. “Wait. Are you saying he sent you all the way to Europe, completely on your own, with no return ticket? Do you even speak the language? What were you supposed to do over there? How did he expect you to get back?”

“Whoa. Hold on now,” I tell him. “It wasn’t that bad. It’s not like he dropped me off on a deserted island. I was staying with family, remember? Mama could certainly have afforded to send me back, if she’d wanted, or if I’d’ve insisted. But yes, I’m sure Geno was hoping I’d stay gone for a while. I think he viewed it as an easy solution to the problem.”

“What problem was that?”

“Well, me, of course. I was always the problem. And I guess, after eight years of dealing with me, he decided he’d had enough.”

Romero’s lips tighten. He eyes me narrowly, like he wants to say something, but isn’t sure how I’ll take it. My money’s on either pity, or censure, and I don’t want either.

“I don’t know why we’re even talking about this,” I say, rushing into speech before he can. “He had a point, after all. Not that I would have agreed, at the time.”

“What point was that?”

“Well, I’d just turned eighteen, as you pointed out. But I was not yet twenty-one. So the law was going to treat me like an adult, even though a lot of what I was doing, or wanted to do still wasn’t legal. Or should I not be telling you this?”

He shakes his head. “You’re fine. That was years ago. So, unless you ‘killed a man in Reno,’ you’re in the clear.”

“Good to know,” I reply solemnly. “And I will neither confirm nor deny said Reno-cide.”

His lips quirk. “Noted.”

“Anyway, the reason my uncle was so triggered was because my cousin Leo actually did get into some kind of legal trouble when he was about that age. He’s the oldest of the cousins. I think Geno feared there’d be a repeat performance, so he tended to overreact with the rest of us. Or at least that’s how he was with me and my sisters.”

“So did he kill a man in Reno?”

“Who Leo?” I shake my head. “God, no. Can you imagine?” I sip my wine and laugh at the idea until I realize he isn’t laughing with me. “Are you serious right now?”

“I don’t know,” he says in a politely neutral cop voice that immediately grates on my nerves. “You tell me.”

“I just did,” I snap in response, bristling with family loyalty as I rise to my cousin’s defense. “Of course, he didn’t.” Although, to be honest, I’m responding on instinct. I don’t actually know what kind of trouble Leo had gotten into. I remember the tears, and the raised voices, and the parade of cop cars coming and going down Belmonte’s wide drive, but if I ever knew the details, I’ve forgotten them now.

In all likelihood, that was one of those family secrets—like the ones my cousins and I had talked about earlier. Given my age at the time, I was probably shielded from the drama. But it’s also possible that I just didn’t care. My own life was chaotic enough to keep me wrapped up in my own concerns—especially after my father died.

That hit me hard. It changed everything. Not just for me, of course. We were all affected. And I’m not saying it was a relief when Mama finally up and ran away with Sergio. But, in retrospect, given her own behavior at the time and my outsized feelings of culpability, it kind of was.

“Anyway,” I continue, determined to wrap up the conversation, which has drifted so far off course, I can barely remember where we were headed. “Long story short. My grandmother was against my going. She and my uncle argued about it, but in the end…what can I say? I hadn’t seen my mother in several years, at that point, and…I really wanted to go.”

But that’s another memory I’d rather not revisit. Sitting cross-legged on the porch, right below the open window, straining to hear what was being said. The rapid patter of their voices—speaking in Italian, too quickly and too quietly, for me to easily interpret their words. My uncle’s anger. My grandmother’s pain. My own, deep-set certainty that I would never stop messing up, that I would always find a way to hurt the people I cared about most.

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