“Jacob was very afraid, Lucia. If Isabella had anything to do with that, I think it’s important I know.”

She rubbed her face with both hands then pushed her fingers into her hair and pulled at the roots. “I don’t know, Salvatore. What happened to that little boy, what Dominic did, was cruel. I hope to God my sister wasn’t involved in anything like that. The Izzy I knew wouldn’t be. She’d never hurt a child. And I know he wasn’t physically hurt, but taking him without his mom knowing? Freaking her out like that, and scaring the little boy? I just—”

She looked away and shook her head. When she turned back to me, her eyes glistened with tears.

“Thing is, I don’t know her anymore. I’ve shut everyone out for so long that I don’t even know who I am anymore. I thought this was black-and-white. I hated the Benedetti family. Period. But my sister involved in or even possibly orchestrating something like the kidnapping of a child?”

She shook her head again, her face lined with worry.

“She’s a mother herself. How…what’s happened to us?”

“Too much hate. Too much power,” I said. “Too much of a lust for blood and vengeance. War never makes friends out of enemies. The opposite. It solidifies that hate. The war between Benedetti and DeMarco may have been fought in our fathers’ time, but we inherit the hate, the bad blood. It doesn’t just go away. It carries down generation to generation.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You have every right to.”

“I don’t. You’re not like them, Salvatore.”

But I was. I had killed. I had taken. I had lived off blood money. I’d shed that very blood with my own two hands. Standing up to my father after whipping Lucia, though, and then today—walking away, not giving a shit about what he thought—was I changing? Was I finally growing out of my father’s shadow and casting my own?

And would mine be as dark as his?

“I asked Roman to run a paternity test on Effie, Lucia.”

“I don’t want to know.”

She started to stand but then realized she couldn’t without my help. Which was precisely why I’d laid her on one of the lounge chairs rather than sitting her on a chair.

I touched her arm. “You have to know.”

She closed her eyes and reopened them after a minute but remained silent, waiting.

“Luke isn’t her father.”

From the look on her face, I had the feeling she knew that.

“She carries DNA from my family.” Christ, was I saying this out loud?

A tear rolled down each of Lucia’s cheeks, and I knew she knew.

“They’re testing Dominic’s DNA now. We’ll know for sure soon whether Dominic Benedetti fathered Effie DeMarco.”