He had gotten separate rooms for appearances’ sake, but he slipped into Rory’s room to sleep, curled behind him on the too-small bed. Rory slept even less than the night before, running his hands over the arm around his waist and hoping Arthur understood how grateful Rory was to have him there.

They got breakfast at a restaurant downstairs the next morning. Someone had left a copy of La Gazzetta di Syracuse on their table. Rory stared at the newspaper instead of eating, like it could somehow explain how he was supposed to talk to the man who’d abandoned his mom and sent him to an asylum. “When’s the car getting here?”

“Fifteen minutes.” Arthur hesitated. “There are things to do in Syracuse. Bookstores, museums, that sort of thing. The weather is even nice today.”

Rory furrowed his brow. “Okay,” he said slowly. “But what’s that got to do with the car?”

Arthur met his eyes across the table. “Do you want to see your father?”

Rory froze.

“Please tell me your truth, whatever that is,” Arthur added, quickly and too quietly for anyone else in the restaurant to overhear. “I won’t judge you either way. He’s your father, it would be understandable if you’d like to see him. But considering what he did to you, your entire life—well. I don’t think you’re required to want to see him. You don’t owe him anything. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see him again.”

Rory’s throat felt thick. He looked away, out the window, where a pretty Italian mother was walking down the street hand in hand with her young daughter. His mom had taken him out when she could, on the rare days when they weren’t working.

There might have been more days they weren’t working if his dad had stuck around to share the load.

“He thinks I’m dead.”

“Do you want him to know you’re not?”

Rory ran a hand over his curls, his cap balanced on his knee under the table. “Not really,” he admitted. “He’s probably happier thinking I’m dead. I’m pretty sure he used to wish I’d died as a baby.”

The muscle in Arthur’s jaw twitched. “That’s revolting.”

Rory shrugged helplessly. “He never wanted me to exist. It would have made his life easier if I’d died.”

“Your mother fled starvation only to end up in a country that treats immigrants like trash,” Arthur said sharply. “She was eighteen and preyed on by a liar who claimed to be a good Christian promising marriage. Your father is not the one I feel pity for.”

Rory tried to swallow. “He took me in when she died—”

“Grudgingly. And it sounds like he worked you to the bone, wringing far more out of you than his church could have possibly spent.”