I rolled my eyes but there was no heat behind it. “Well, of course, you’re going to say that. We’re on opposite ends of a blood feud. And, let’s be honest, Vincenza and Ettore will never find common ground. That’s a burned bridge that will ever be mended.”

Marco conceded with a nod, “Understandable, given their history. Given what happened.”

“Yeah,” I uttered through an exhale. “Vincenza hates Ettore.”

Marco’s burst of bitter laughter had me blinking over at him. When he saw I wasn’t kidding, his brows rose and he said, “The only person she should hate is herself.”

Pardon me? A moment of confusion had me silent. “What do you mean?”

“Well, because of what happened that night,” he said, as if it explained everything.

The way he looked at me then caused another brief pause.

Vincenza may have been self-absorbed, but where I may have felt numb over what happened with our father, I had her back on this one. My sister was allowed to feel angry. We were entitled to hurt.

My brows dipped as I relayed the most important part of that painful story. “Ettore shot my father. He killed him. Why should Vincenza feel anything other than hatred for him?”

“Because of… what she did.” I sat there on the step, looking up at him and we wore matching expressions of resentment. After a while, a look of confusion crossed Marco’s features and he said, “You don’t know?”

I didn’t know what it was, but the way he said it had a solid sense of trepidation tightening across my chest. My heart beat slowed. I barely had the strength to ask the quiet but dreaded question, “Know what?”

It didn’t take a genius to see the moment he realized he’d said too much, and with that, Marco bailed. He stood tall, handed me his half full mug and opened the front door. “This is a family matter and one you should discuss with your sister when you get the chance.” He ushed me inside, but before he closed the front door, he seemed to linger, hesitating. He shook his head, knowing he shouldn’t be saying what he was about to, but was compelled to add, “You never thought about it?”

“Thought about what?” came my bewildered response.

He licked his lips and said, “After your father’s death, your family lost a seat at the high table and Ettore walked free without punishment. There was no retribution. Your uncle never sought revenge. And you never stopped to think why?”

I’d heard the story countless times. It was how my sister learned to manipulate me. My father was murdered in cold blood.

I swallowed hard as my temple began to throb.

Wasn’t he?

“Ettore despises Vincenza,” the front door creaked as it began to close. And just before it did, Marco said, “And with good cause.”