Page 52 of Broken Trust

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DANTE

Dr. Bassi's office is on the third floor of an old palazzo behind the cathedral, up a staircase so steep that I'm out of breath by the second landing. Gia climbs it ahead of me without slowing down.

I'm so nervous I've already checked my phone four times to make sure Ma hasn't called about Rosa.

The doctor opens the door before we can knock. She's somewhere in her sixties, small and neat, with silver hair cut close to her head and reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She speaks slowly and warmly, like someone pouring honey.

“Come in, both of you. Sit wherever you like.”

Her office is smaller than I expected. There's a ficus in the corner that's lost half its leaves, a box of tissues on every flat surface, and a tall window looking out onto the cathedral roof, where a few pigeons are huddled against the cold. A worn leather sofa faces a single armchair. Gia takes the far end of the couch and tucks herself into the corner of it with her bag on her lap. I sit at the other end. There's a whole cushion of cracked brown leather between us, and it feels a mile wide.

Dr. Bassi settles into the armchair, crosses her ankles, and opens a notebook on her knee.

“I always start the same way,” she says. “I'm not here to decide who's right or who's to blame. I'm here to help you understand each other, and maybe yourselves. So let's begin with something simple. Dante, why are you here?”

I open my mouth, and for a second nothing comes out. I've rehearsed this. I lay awake half the night going over it while the house slept, with Rosa snoring in her crib beside my bed. None of it feels right now that I'm sitting here.

“Because I wrecked my marriage,” I say finally. “And I need to understand how I turned into the man who could do that.”

She writes something down. “And how do you think that happened?”

I look at my hands. There's still a little flour ground into the creases of my knuckles from helping Gia clean her kitchen yesterday. I rub at it with my thumb while I try to find the beginning.

“I grew up with nothing,” I start. “Ma was a cleaner; she would work for rich folks like Gia’s family and Pa worked in a factory until he retired.”

Gia shifts beside me, a cushion away. I can feel her listening.

“Then I met Gia, and her family was everything I'd grown up hating. The big house, the cars, the parties. Her mother eyed me like something the cat dragged in. And I married into all of it anyway.” I swallow. “When my books started selling, and then the plays, people suddenly wanted to know me. Producers, investors, journalists. They'd laugh at my jokes and buy me drinks and save me the best table. Nobody had ever treated me like that before, like I mattered.”

“And how did that feel?”

“Like a drug.” The word comes out rough. “I loved every second of it. I'd walk into a room and feel the heads turn, and I'd forget I was ever that kid with holes in his shoes.”

The doctor waits. She doesn't fill the silence, and so I have to.

“There was a party. An opening night at the Teatro Comunale. Gia came with me in this beautiful red dress she'd saved up for, and I spent the whole evening working the room with the money men. At one point I sent a young waiter back to the bar three times because my champagne wasn't cold enough. He was maybe nineteen. His hands were shaking.” I press my thumb hard into my knuckle. “And Gia was standing by the coat check on her own for over an hour, because I'd forgotten she was there. I didn't even notice until she found me and asked if we could leave.”

I risk a glance at her. She's staring at the window, but her jaw is tight.

“That waiter was Ma’s friend. One of the women she used to work with,” I say quietly. “And I was the man snapping his fingers. I became the kind of person I'd sworn as a boy to hate, and I never saw it happening. I was too busy enjoying the view.” My voice cracks. I don't try to steady it. “I hate myself for that, and for how long it took me to see it.”

The cathedral bell strikes the half hour.

Dr. Bassi turns to Gia. “How is it for you, hearing that?”

Gia doesn't answer right away. She takes a tissue from the box beside her, folds it in half, and folds it again, and when she finally looks up, her eyes are wet.

“I remember that night,” she says. “The red dress. I'd been saving for it since the spring, and I wanted you to look at me the way everyone else was looking at you.” She shakes her head slowly. “I stood there telling myself it was fine. That you were busy, that it was important for your career.”

“What made you do that?” the doctor asks gently.

Gia twists the tissue between her fingers. “Because I didn't think I deserved more. I never have. Mamma spent my whole childhood telling me I was the wrong size and the wrong shape, the twin who'd come out slightly off. Mia was the pretty one. I was the useful one. So when Dante picked me, when this beautiful, clever boy chose me over my sister, I thought that was the most I'd ever get. I thought if I stayed useful and quiet and never asked for too much, he'd keep choosing me.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and I have to grip the arm of the sofa to stop myself from reaching for her.

He pauses, as if she’s thinking about how to word our painful past. “Even after I built my own restaurant, and had people queuing out the door to eat my food, I still didn't believe it. A man came along who told me what to wear and what to eat and how often I was allowed to see my own sister, and I let him. Because some part of me still thought being wanted by somebody, anybody, was more than I had a right to expect.” She presses the tissue to her eyes. “I'd built a whole new life, and I was still that girl at the coat check.”