Page 54 of Iron Crown

“I regret so much when it comes to her,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “I was a crueler, more ambitious man once. Of all the men I have killed, and tortured, of all the suffering I havecaused… what suffering I caused her will be the only black marks on my soul.”

He took a drink, then placed it quietly down.

“You truly were in love with her.” I swished the glass in my hand, but did not drink it. “Your own goddaughter.”

“Hmm,” he said with a nod, as he brought the wine glass to his mouth again, taking a healthy swallow.

He sighed with satisfaction, smacking his lips.

“This Brunello is excellent,” he declared with a smile on his lips, his voice beginning to slur.

His next movements were agonizingly slow. He sucked the wine in between his lips, the sound of it grating on my nerves, before he finally swallowed it with pleasure. Like he was at a wine tasting.

“Will you be my confessor, as I have been yours?” he asked. “I suppose it’s no harm.”

I shrugged, because at this very moment, I could not tell him no. “If you like.”

He had finished his glass and poured himself another. He gave me a toast, and I lifted my glass as well. I brought it to my lips, but did not drink. He, on the other hand, took a healthy pull.

“I did the unbelievable crime of taking her too young,” he said, his voice pained. “I made a young girl fall in love with me, then took her before she was ready.”

I wanted to strike him. Or, at least, I wanted towantto strike him. But I couldn’t even let myself feel that kind of hate.

He was so weak and frail, his memories were the last place he could still go, given the cage I kept him in. I had watched his sins haunt him day by day, and it made him more and more determined to win me over so that he could save his beloved.

How could I hate a man like that? How could I hate him when he was so much like myself?

“How old was she?” I asked.

“It was the day she turned nineteen,” he said with a sad, guilty laugh. Like he couldn’t believe the absurdity of it all.

“Fuck!” I scowled, feeling the alcohol of earlier that day roiling up my throat. “And you were… thirty-nine?”

Christ, if I had a daughter and a man that age went after her… I’d murder him. Plain and simple. I wouldn’t even bother with the joy of making him suffer. I’d just end his life, because I would not risk the possibility of him coming back.

“I know, Irishcapo, I know!” He placed his hand on his forehead, and for the first time, his brow knitted together. “I was an ambitious man, remember? A man of lesser scruples.”

He was ashamed. Truly ashamed.

“If I had the girl, I could supplant Durante. That was what I wished for more than anything, because of the disaster Eugenio visited on us again, and again, and again! I thought the girl and her feelings would be a small price to pay.” He downed the winewith far less reverence than his first sip, then placed the empty glass on the desk again. “I knew I was wrong the moment I woke the next morning, realizing that she deserved so much more than just to be used and discarded.”

A tear sparkled in his eye.

“I learned far too late that she wasn’t the price.” He shook his head, his fingers tapping the book he was still reading.Queen Margot.

The blood-soaked queen on the cover, staring in horror at the head of the soldier whom she had adored as a lover.

“She was thereason,” Morelli said sadly. “I might have begun seeing her as a means to an end. But now…”

He poured himself another glass, swaying in his seat.

“She is the end itself. Poor little dove. What have we done to you?” He kissed the tips of his fingers, which he held together in front of him like a prayer. “I have always loved her. That part I do not regret. From the moment she kissed me, I have loved her. That was the only thing I have done right in my sinful existence.”

Two tears streamed down his cheeks, disappearing into his silver beard. His gray eyes looked almost white. I’m sure blindness would set in if he stayed here much longer. Then what would he do about all of his books?

“Would you grant a dying man a final wish?” Morelli’s slur disappeared, and I almost jumped at the shock of it.

We had frequently spoken about his death as if he were dying of some terminal illness, and not the simple passage of time that would lead him to the business end of my knife.

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