Page 22 of His Fatal Love

“She didn’t die.”

“—I don’t see why...what?”

“She didn’t die, Gene. She was murdered.”

He begins to say something, then thinks better of it. “Julian,” he says gently at last, “your mother was beautiful and captivating and I loved her with my whole heart. But she wasn’twell. She had a melancholy that would completely disrupt her life at times. She’d threatened suicide several times before, after arguments with your father. You were very young, so perhaps you don’t recall—“

“Oh, I recall,” I say softly. “I recall that day by the fountain very well.”

“By the fountain?” He frowns, then understanding seems to come to him. “You were there? You saw...”

“I sawyou.” My voice is still soft, but I know he hears the fury in it, because I see the reactionary terror in his eyes. “I saw you drown her in the fishpond. Leave her there, face down.”

He looks away and swallows hard. “Julian, I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. She killed herself. She was very ill, and she—“

“No. You need to hear me, old man.I saw you.”

I’ve made a study of expressions over the years, and the strangest thing about Lombardo’s confusion is that I think it’s genuine. “I’m sorry,” he says again, “but you’re gravely mistaken. I could never have harmed a hair on that woman’s head, Julian. I loved her. I would have died myself to save her—waswillingto die, to get her away from...” He clears his throat. “Whatever you saw that day—whoever you saw—it wasn’t me. And in any case,” he goes on, voice getting more strident, “if you reallydidsee me, why haven’t you confronted me before now?”

Lombardo believes he is telling the truth. That much is clear. As for why I’ve been keeping this information to myself…I’d rather not get into that. “Never mind my reasons. Tell me about that day. Don Castellani has ordered you to answer my questions—do you want me to tell him you won’t?”

He pauses for a moment before answering. “I’m not sure where to start. Your mother and I had planned to run away together for weeks, and it had become urgent. She’d been unsettled the day before—“

“The day before,” I pounce. “My father had a meeting, didn’t he? The heads of several important Families. Aldo Bernardi was there. Anna-Vittoria Esposito. Many others, long dead now—but Chuckles Moran was there, too.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Lombardo sighs. “Pacific Syndicate was a new venture back then, and Chuckles kept poaching guys from all our Families. Poaching our territory, too. Ciro wanted to put some rules in place, so we could all do business. Chuckles wouldn’t go for it, though. He regretted it pretty fast.”

“And why was she upset, my mother?”

“She was paranoid. Not making any sense. Said she’s seen three men, talking together in low voices. They’d all jumped and stared at her as she came around the fountain. Made her feel…unsafe.”

I lean forward. “Who were they?”

“That’s thepoint. She said she didn’t know them, when kneweveryonewas there that day. Hosted a lunch, even, because Ciro asked her to. But she said she had a bad feeling about them, that they’d been looking at her strangely. That’s when I knew it was time to get her out of Redwood. She was imaginative, your mother, but hallucinating strangers on the grounds, on a day when security was at highest alert? She wasunwell. Your father was going to Chicago after the meeting, and wasn’t due back until late the next day, so it gave us a chance. I made arrangements to get her back to England before Ciro returned.”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t get her back to England.”

Now that he’s started talking, Lombardo can’t seem to stop. He sits back in his seat, running his hands through his hair, and the stink of his hair wax assaults my nostrils.

“I came back to Redwood the next morning to fetch her—the day of her death. She was so happy to see me…” He sniffs, takes a moment, and I try not to sneer. “I told her it would all be alright, that Ciro had no idea. I went up to the house to give our cover story to the guards, fetch her things, and while I was there, some of the groundskeepers ran into the house, yelling that she was dead.” He breaks down, covering his face in his hands.

I get up from the chair, ignoring Lombardo’s show, and walk to the window. Outside, a light rain is starting to fall.

I remember.

I remember my mother helping me to pack my bag as we prepared for what she called a “holiday.” She was so full of excitement, hadn’t been so happy for a long time. She’d promised that everything would be alright.

I blink hard, and the office comes back into focus.

“And it was true,” Lombardo goes on, his voice thick with grief, “she was dead. She’d drowned herself.”

I turn away from the window and back to Lombardo. He looks at me with a mixture of sorrow, fear and regret.

“You really believe that,” I say. “Don’t you?”