Last Man Standing. Wendy Rosnau
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so I concentrated on Rhea and Niccolo. Joey had been searching for Rhea for three years. He had no idea Frank was hiding her in Florida or that she’d had his son. When Frank arrived in Chicago days later, I waited for your name to come up. When it did, Frank threw me a curve by claiming you were our sister. I knew it wasn’t true, but I figured he had a reason for lying, so I kept quiet until I learned what it was. And you, Elena? How long have you known the sister story was a lie?”
“Not long.”
“Not long doesn’t answer my question. When I was at Santa Palazzo and Frank introduced us, you knew then, didn’t you? How long before that?”
“The night you and Joey came and took Nicci, Rhea was extremely upset. She had a right to be, but it was more than that. There were so many things I felt she wanted to say but couldn’t. After she left Santa Palazzo to follow Nicci here, I decided to investigate a few things for myself. Like you, I ended up at the hospital several days later checking records and discovered Frank wasn’t my real father.”
“But you didn’t go straight to him with what you’d learned? Why?”
Elena tossed her coat on the bed. “By then he was here in Chicago. Rhea had lived with us at Santa Palazzo for three years. She and I had grown close. I was concerned about her and Nicci. I wanted things to work out for them, so I decided to table what I knew until things settled down.”
“Frank was home almost a week before we arrived. You had five days to talk to him.”
“And I was going to the night he returned. We sat down to talk and then he started telling me about his double life. About his sons, my half brothers. I knew it was a lie, the brother part, but I just listened.” Elena shrugged. “I guess I was too confused at the time to question him.”
The look Lucky gave her clearly called her a liar. “The truth is, Elena, you didn’t trust him to tell you the truth. So you decided to make plans to find out the truth for yourself.”
“It wasn’t that easy. My mother is very dependent on me. I do things for her that no one else does. In order to leave Santa Palazzo to learn the truth, as you put it, I needed to teach Frank how to do those things. Since he’s now retired, with no plans to ever leave Santa Palazzo, I spent the next week—” Elena paused “—I suppose you could call it, weaning Mother away from me.”
“And he was willing to do these things for her?”
“I’ve never doubted Frank’s love for my mother. Of course he didn’t know I had an ulterior motive for suggesting that he get more involved in Mother’s therapy now that he’s home to stay. Tonight I gave him one more chance to tell me the truth. I told him I knew he wasn’t my father. I asked him to give me my father’s name. He refused, so here I am.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know who your father is.”
Elena arched her delicate black eyebrows. “If you know, then Frank knows.”
“Did I say I knew?”
“Come on, Lucky. Not you, too.”
“Lucky? At Santa Palazzo it was Tomas. Out there—” he motioned to the other side of the door “—it was, ‘Listen, you.’ What broke the ice? My charm in the hallway?”
There was no reason for him to bring up that stupid kiss, so why had he? And as far as his nickname went, she wasn’t sure why she’d used it. But did it really matter? What was in a name?
Everything, she decided. After all, that was one of the reasons she’d come to Chicago.
Elena shoved away from the bed and gave him her back. The way he continued to take her apart with his dark eyes since they’d entered the room was starting to make her feel self-conscious. She had bought her outfit at the airport out of necessity. She hadn’t thought about the weather until she’d gotten off the plane in her white summer skirt and sandals to twenty degrees and snow-flakes.
“You came to talk, Elena. So let’s talk.”
She turned back around and boldly studied him the way he’d been studying her for the past five minutes. He was taller and broader than his brother and father, but leaner.
Still, that wasn’t what she’d noticed first about him—his drinking or his classic Italian nose. Or the visible scars on his hands and neck. What she’d noticed as she’d stepped onto the veranda at Santa Palazzo and laid eyes on Lucky Masado for the very first time was the rebel length of his midnight-black hair and how much of his soul she’d glimpsed in the depths of his brown eyes.
Again she focused on those soulful eyes, then on the way his sleek nose led her gaze straight to his rugged mouth and unshaven jaw. A second later she was appreciating the open V of his collarless muslin shirt and how it showed off his rich Sicilian skin and a smattering of black chest hair.
When she began to examine his beat-up leather jacket and the number of holes in it, she decided that they couldn’t possibly be what they appeared to be or he would be dead, right?
Yes, he was his father’s son. But even Frank, with his eye patch and all his intimidating ways, looked like a pussycat next to his street-soldier son with a rumored scar that ran more than half the length of his body.
Suddenly Elena needed to say it. To demand he give her what she’d come for. “Who is he, Lucky? Who is my father? I want his name.”
“I can’t tell you that, Elena.”
Elena ignored the way her stomach did a slow flip. When he said her name, he dragged it out, reminding her of thick syrup fighting to stay in the bottle.
He angled his head just enough to give her a better view of the vivid scar that ran down the side of his neck and disappeared into his shirt. Was that the one? Elena wondered. Was that the beginning of the rumored scar that had almost killed him?
He unfolded his arms and shrugged off his leather jacket and dropped it on the floor. She watched the way he moved, ran her tongue over her teeth. Remembered the kiss that wasn’t a kiss.
“You could be in danger if certain people in Chicago were to find out your identity, Elena. You’re what is known as a loose end.”
“A complication.”
“Yes. Coming here and stirring things up is no good. Your father’s name was not kept from you to hurt you, but to protect you. You and your mother.”
“That’s what Frank said, but I didn’t—”
“Believe him? This isn’t a game, Elena.”
She stiffened, resenting that word more and more. “I know that. I have no intention of broadcasting my identity to the world. All I want is his name. Give it to me, and I promise I’ll be on the next flight back to Key West.”
“You think his name will be enough?”
“Yes.”
“I think you want the name to be enough.” He shook his head. “We both know it won’t be.”
“I don’t think you know me well enough to say that.”
“What I know is that Frank has successfully kept your mother alive for twenty-four years. Do you want that to change, Elena? Is a name worth jeopardizing her safety?”
“I love my mother. I don’t want to hurt her. I want to understand. I want to know who I am. Why—”
“Why what?”
“Why it was kept from me.”
“You ask for something I can’t give you. Only your mother has a right to tell you who your father is. Or Frank.”
“You know Mother can’t tell me because she can’t remember the past. And Frank won’t. That leaves you.” Frustrated, afraid she’d come all this way for nothing, Elena said, “The saying goes, every man has his price. Since we both know you don’t need money, what do you want for the name?”