As I battered myself internally, Ettore brushed past me and made for the bar where he poured himself a tumbler of whisky. I blinked in astonishment as he downed it all in one gulp, placing the glass down with a light slam. And then it was a stare off.

His heavy brows furrowed on me and I could tell he was fighting an internal battle, much as I was. And the silence raged on. I was sure he thought I would become self-conscious enough to speak, but I was quiet by nature. I rarely raised my voice and in the odd instance that I did, I was fast to apologize. At home, Vincenza was the boss. And I was… well…

My heart panged.

…Sorry to even exist.

Ettore poured another for himself, this time a more sensible measure. He lifted the glass and held it to his mouth, asking a reluctant, “How old are you?” before tipping it back.

I cleared my bruised throat, stood awkwardly and tried desperately to avoid his black piercing gaze. “Twenty-one.”

And Ettore closed his eyes, lowered his head and ran a hand down his face, muttering, “Fuck me.”

I willed myself to step back, but my body refused to listen. “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t actually sorry. It was simply force of habit to apologize when things got heated. I was used to shouldering the blame, even for things I had no control over.

He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, refusing to look at me. “I knew you were young, but I didn’t know you were that young.” His expression turned pained and he reached up to touch the covered bullet wound, hissing out, “Earlier, in the limo…”

Oh God, no.

My heart stuttered and my cheeks blazed as I forced out, “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Please don’t make me talk about that.

Ettore stood tall and even though I was sure it wasn’t meant to be intimidating, I suddenly regained use of my limbs and took a small step backwards. His expressive eyes bore in on me. “Much like you, I have been dreading this day. I woke this morning and took my crying children over to their nonno’s, telling them everything was going to be okay. That I was marrying was a nice woman.”

Trepidation pierced a hole in my solar plexus and my throat tightened to a point that I thought I might not be able to breathe ever again.

Why was he telling me this?