Page 95 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Memory.
“Stefano survived his father,” she says.
The room seems to quiet around that.
Outside the doorway, I can still sense Omar, probably hearing every word and pretending he is not. Good. Let him. Some stories feel like they require witnesses.
“What was his father like?” I ask.
Dolores’ eyes lift to mine. “A man who believed love was a weakness and proved it by removing every soft thing from his son’s life.”
“It’s my understanding that Stefano’s mother died,” I say as my grip tightens around the cup.
The words come out before I decide whether I should share them, and Dolores’ face instantly changes.
“He told you that?”
“Not exactly.” I think of the study, of Stefano’s voice when he mentioned losing what made heirs weak. “He implied he didn’t see her again after he was five.”
Dolores looks toward the sleeping children. Her voice lowers. “He didn't.”
“Why?”
“Because his father decided a mother made a boy soft.”
The words hit ugly.
Simple.
Cruel.
I think of Heath reaching for Erin in his sleep. I think of Stefano stopping in the doorway yesterday because Erin froze when he entered. I think of him handing me the thermometer instead of taking control himself. I think of him telling Erin no one would take Heath unless I went with him.
“His father took her away?” I ask.
Dolores nods once. “Sent her back to her family. Cut off contact. Letters. Calls. Anything. Stefano was told she left because she was weak. Later because she didn't want him. Later because wanting her made him less worthy of the name.”
Something cold moves through me.
“That’s monstrous.”
“Yes.”
Dolores says it simply, without drama, which makes it worse.
“He was five?”
“Five.”
I look toward the hall without meaning to.
There is no sign of Stefano. No trace of the boy he had been. Only the memory of the man in a black suit arranging medical care with terrifying efficiency and telling a crying child he didn't lie to make her easier to calm.
“He must have hated him,” I say.
“He did.” Dolores takes a slow breath. “And loved him, because children are cruelly loyal before they learn better.”
Dolores studies me for a moment before continuing. “I worked in the house then. Kitchen, laundry, whatever was needed. I was not important enough to protect him, and not close enough to be allowed to love him openly. But when he was small, he would find me when he could. Mostly when he was hurt.”
