Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts. Barbara McMahon
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your father at least help out financially?”
He shook his head. “According to her, the reason Alex and I wound up in the States to begin with was that Luca was broke and couldn’t provide for us. He was selling food from a roadside stand at that point.” Angelo’s tone turned frosty. “Eventually things turned around. He managed to open a restaurant, remarry and support a second family.”
“He never contacted you and Alex?”
“Once. We were eighteen and already living in New York. He managed to track us down through some shirttail relative of our mother’s. I was so ticked off at him that I hung up the telephone a few minutes into the conversation. Busted the receiver in two.” He snorted out a laugh that held no humor.
“You had a right to be angry.”
Hearing her say it opened the floodgate. During the past twenty years, he’d shared his private pain with no one except his twin. He found it surprisingly easy to tell Atlanta, “Luca forgot all about Alex and me. When you come right down to it, he abandoned us!”
His words echoed down the hillside.
“I’m sorry, Angelo.” Atlanta reached across the table to lay one of her hands over his.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Not so long that it doesn’t still hurt.”
And it did. The pain in his heart throbbed as intensely as the one in his shoulder. His throat constricted with emotions he rarely allowed to the surface. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“SO, TELL me how baseball saved you,” Atlanta said after a long moment. “Did you play for your high school’s team?”
“No. I didn’t have the grades to make the school’s team. You had to pull at least a C average in all of your classes to suit up one week to the next. I was lucky to be passing. If not for a couple of teachers who believed in social promotion, I don’t think Alex and I would have graduated the same year.” He swallowed before saying, “I wasn’t much of a studier and I have a hard time with letters. Some of them like to scramble up on me.”
“You’re dyslexic.”
“They didn’t use that term as much back then, but, yeah. I’m dyslexic.”
“So, where does baseball enter this picture?” she asked.
“Not long after I hotwired a cherry-red Porsche.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen? You can’t drive at that age.”
“Not legally, but I’d had a lot of practice.” Some of his good humor returned and he sent a wink in her direction. “I’d had a lot of practice at other things by that age, too, sweetheart.”
She shook her head on a weary laugh. “Just go on with the story, please.”
“Okay. By then Cindy was dead, and Alex and I were in the foster-care system. We’d already run away from a home in Boston and had lived on the streets for a while, dodging social workers and police. You meet people there.” He sobered as black-edged memories swirled in. “They make certain things sound…acceptable, even though you know they aren’t.”
“Things like stealing a car?”
“Yeah. They turn crime into a rite of passage for misguided kids looking for a place to belong. Alex wanted no part of it. To this day, he doesn’t know how close I came to being completely sucked under,” Angelo said quietly.
“How did you wind up in New York?”
“The people I was running with in Boston had friends in the Bronx. They said they could find work for me. Alex didn’t like it. He went with me to New York, determined to keep me out of trouble. One night, I was supposed to deliver the stolen car to a chop shop. I got the street wrong.” He shook his head. “Dyslexic, remember?”
“Then what?”
“When Alex came to see me in jail, social services swooped in. He was assigned a foster home in Brooklyn. The father was a no-nonsense former U.S. Marine. Big Mike, they called him. While I was awaiting my court date the guy pulled some strings and, after spending a few weeks in juvie, I got sent there.”
This wasn’t part of his official bio. Long ago, Angelo’s agent had talked him out of sharing any of the truly unsavory particulars. Fans rooted for underdogs, but there was no sense in making them squeamish.
“Were you found guilty?” Atlanta asked.
He nodded. “Grand theft auto, a felony. Even though I was a juvenile I was looking at some serious time. I had already racked up a couple of other minor offenses back in Boston. This made me a repeat offender as far as the DA in New York was concerned. So he charged me as an adult. I was facing time in juvenile detention until my eighteenth birthday, after which time I would be moved to the state penitentiary to finish out the rest of my sentence. But Big Mike, he was the foster dad, he went out on a limb for me at my sentencing hearing. He told the judge not to write me off. He said I was smart and had potential to turn my life around, but tossing me in the pen with the adult population would all but ensure I became a career criminal. Mike felt what I really needed was a good attitude adjustment and to have my energy refocused.”
“And the judge listened?” Atlanta asked, sounding as surprised as Angelo had been twenty-some years earlier.
“Mike’s word carried a lot of weight with the court.” He snorted out a laugh. “For good reason, as it turned out. The guy knew how to adjust attitudes and refocus energy. The first night I was in his home he sat me down at the kitchen table and point-blank told me that if I blew the second chance he’d just gotten me, he’d personally see to it that I wound up behind bars. That’s not all he told me, but I’ll spare your delicate sensibilities and won’t repeat the rest of his lecture.”
“You were scared straight.”
“Damned right. The guy was huge and intimidating as hell. He meant business. He also cared. What really kept me on the straight and narrow, though, was baseball. Mike coached a team in a recreational league. I’d always liked baseball. I’d always been good at it despite no formal training. But when I started playing on Mike’s team…” He shook his head, words failing him.
Atlanta’s expression softened with understanding. “So, baseball saved your life.”
He nodded. “That’s why it’s all I can imagine doing, even though I know I can’t do it forever. Given your circumstances, you probably feel the same about acting.”
A shadow passed over her face. “I love it. And you’re right. Acting saved me in a way, too.” It was gone by the time she went on. “But if I never starred in another movie like the ones I’ve been making for the past decade, I’d be okay with that.”
“Liar,” he taunted, sure she couldn’t mean it.
But her tone was emphatic. “I’m being honest, Angelo. I’m tired of the roles I’ve been playing. I’ve wanted to move in a different direction for a while now. During the past few years I’ve been approached by indie film makers with screenplays that have had me salivating despite the low pay and nearly nonexistent production budgets.”
“What’s stopped you from doing them?”
“Zeke.” She shook her head then. “No. That’s too neat of an explanation and not entirely accurate. The messier truth is I’ve been afraid. The moviegoing public loves Atlanta Jackson, the vulnerable vixen. But would they love me in a less-than-sexy role?”
Surprised, he asked, “Is that the kind of part you want to play?”
“If it had some real meat. I’ve also given some thought to directing. I’ve learned a lot from my time in front of the