Читать книгу: «The Brunellesci Baby», страница 2

CHAPTER TWO

‘VISITING RIGHTS?’ He would concede his nephew’s mother the right to visit her child? Such magnanimity.

Swallowing the sarcastic addendum, she reminded herself again that losing her temper would do no good. ‘That isn’t enough,’ she said, with an effort sticking to understatement. ‘You can’t expect me to accept it.’

‘But you expect me to tamely hand over Nicky to you—a stranger?’

Her heart jumping with panic and then rage at the callous remark, she made another effort to steady herself. ‘His mother,’ she reiterated. If she repeated the words often enough surely they would seem more real, to herself as well as to him.

Zandro’s own anger escaped his iron control. ‘You haven’t been near him since he was two months old!’

‘That’s not my fault!’ Zandro couldn’t have forgotten the promise he’d extracted, made Lia sign her name to. ‘You wouldn’t let me near him!’

‘In the state you were in, do you blame me? It was for his sake.’

Did he truly believe that? Had anything more than family pride and possessiveness been behind his insistence that Rico’s son had a right to be raised as a Brunellesci and Lia must give him up?

No, she reminded herself. Zandro and his parents could have helped without taking Dominic away. If he’d really had the child’s interests in mind he’d have found some way to support its mother, not cut her off from any contact with her son. ‘It was a mistake,’ she said, ‘leaving him with you.’

His look held contempt and disbelief. ‘You would take him away from everything—everyone—he knows?’

‘I realise I can’t uplift him without warning.’ She might not know a great deal about children, but that much was basic. ‘I hoped you and your parents would be reasonable—allow him time to get used to me before…before I take him home.’

‘This is his home.’ His autocratic tone brooked no argument. ‘Where he will stay until he’s old enough to decide for himself.’

Moistening her lips, she formed her next words carefully. ‘Perhaps your parents will think differently. You don’t know how it feels to have a child. Your mother might understand.’

‘I know how it feels.’

An unpleasant shock stirred in her stomach. ‘You have a child?’

‘I have Nicky,’ he said. ‘And I don’t intend to let him go.’

Deadlock. In his rock-hard face she saw the same unyielding willpower he’d exerted in order to get his hands on Dominic, to force through the paperwork that made him the baby’s legal guardian, ensuring there could be no comeback if Lia changed her mind.

She wasn’t giving up, but banging her head against the brick wall of his intransigence wouldn’t accomplish anything at this point. ‘I’d like to see him,’ she said.

‘He’ll be having his nap.’

‘I’ll wait.’ Short of bodily throwing her out, or getting a henchman to do it, he wouldn’t shift her.

He regarded her consideringly for several seconds, perhaps weighing how much of a fight she’d put up if he did physically remove her. Then he gave a short, surprised laugh, strode to a discreet intercom on the wall and pressed a button. ‘Two cups and a pot of coffee please, Mrs Walker,’ he said into the machine. ‘And something to eat.’

Switching off, he wandered to a window, looking out at the driveway and lawns. Perhaps realising it was discourteous to present his back to a guest, however unwelcome, he turned abruptly. ‘When did you begin watching the house?’ he asked.

‘Yesterday was the first time.’

‘Have you been in Australia for long?’

‘Since the day before.’

‘Where are you staying?’

She told him, but he didn’t seem to recognise the name of the bed and breakfast accommodation. Small, cheap and basic, it was no doubt not the kind of place that he or anyone he knew would even notice. ‘It’s clean,’ she said. ‘And quiet.’

He glanced out of the window, then returned his attention to her. ‘I tried to keep track of you after you left here. You moved about a lot. I didn’t know you’d returned to New Zealand.’

‘You had me watched?’ Resentment at the intrusion coloured her voice. ‘Why?’ Had he anticipated that Lia might one day challenge his guardianship of her son? Hoped for some damning sign that would count against her, strengthen his position?

His mouth went tight. ‘I wanted to know if you were all right. You’re Nicky’s mother, after all. And Rico loved you, however wrong-headed he was.’

Rico, his younger brother who had loved life and lived for the moment, impatient with the restrictions and expectations of the Brunellesci family. And who had paid the price and died far too young in the wreckage of his car, leaving a baby and a desperate, injured and grief-stricken mother who couldn’t cope with what had happened to her and her child.

Even after securing legal custody of his brother’s child, Zandro had been concerned about Lia? Hard to believe.

He might, she supposed, have been protecting the family’s reputation, perhaps afraid of what Rico’s lover might say about his brother, about his parents, about Zandro himself.

‘I managed,’ she said. ‘My…my friends helped, when I got back home to New Zealand.’

‘Better friends, I hope, than the ones you had in Sydney.’

Sydney was where Lia had met Rico, she on a working holiday from New Zealand, he escaping what he’d called the suffocation of his family home and business.

It had been love at first sight; at least that was what they’d believed. One look at Lia and no other woman existed for Rico—he’d told her so on their second meeting. She’d felt exactly the same. The pace of their affair was matched by the pace of their lifestyle—fast, frenetic, sometimes wild. They were young, heedless, caring for nothing but each other, the need to enjoy every moment as if they knew their time would be short, eager to explore every heady new sensation to the fullest. Perhaps deep down they’d known that such sizzling, euphoric emotion couldn’t last. But never had Lia dreamed it could end so shatteringly.

When she’d fled back to New Zealand it was to a totally different lifestyle, after finally realising how few people she could rely on once her laughing, handsome lover was dead, his money gone with him, her baby taken and her health broken.

A plump middle-aged woman entered with a tray that she placed on the table nearest the visitor. Noticing the compress as she straightened, the woman looked surprised. ‘You’re hurt? Can I do anything?’

Zandro looked at the compress. ‘Perhaps some more ice, Mrs Walker… Lia?’

‘No, it’s fine now, but maybe you could take this away?’ She unwound the compress, and when the housekeeper had left inquired, ‘What happened to Mrs Strickland?’

‘She retired and went to live with her daughter in Sydney.’ Zandro crossed the big room and poured coffee into the cups, silently indicating the sugar and milk on the tray. He picked up his cup as she added sugar to hers. ‘I would like to believe,’ he said, straightening with the cup in his hand, ‘that you have changed—a lot. Is that possible?’

‘What do you think?’ she demanded witheringly. ‘After losing Rico and having his baby snatched away, you supposed there’d be no change?’

Something flickered across his face, too fast for her to identify it. Chagrin, perhaps—surely not compassion.

It was quickly replaced by an impenetrable mask when he’d seated himself opposite her. ‘The fact is, you have no rights now. You agreed, and it was all legal and aboveboard.’

He’d been much smarter than Lia. Taken her to a lawyer—his lawyer—to sign over her baby to him. No doubt the legalese was watertight.

Her jaw ached and she looked down into her coffee, trying not to snap back a retort that would only antagonise him. ‘My information,’ she said, ‘is that a parent can rescind guardianship.’

‘Are you prepared to bear the scrutiny of a court on your suitability to care for Nicky?’

Aware of being on frighteningly shaky ground, she gulped some coffee and tried to sound confident. ‘If you insist on taking it that far. I have nothing to hide.’ A barefaced lie. She told herself—not for the first time—that desperate situations demanded desperate measures. Saving a child from a life of misery surely justified a few unavoidable falsehoods.

‘Nothing?’ He seemed incredulous, and again she experienced a nervous, dreaded uncertainty.

He couldn’t possibly have guessed her secret. His scepticism was based on what little he’d known of Lia months ago, after his brother’s death.

If her perilous bluff failed she would go to court, tell the truth and throw every resource she could muster into the fight to beat the Brunellescis and take Dominic home where he belonged. A proper home where he’d be loved for himself, not for what he represented to the future of a business empire. A home where love and understanding were more important than money, and success was measured by the quality of relationships and the satisfaction of a job well done, instead of company dividends. Where he’d be allowed to choose his career, rather than be indoctrinated with the idea that as a Brunellesci he was destined to be swallowed up by the corporate politics of the family’s various holdings. And where he’d never be forced into a role that would stultify him and break his spirit.

Zandro was staring intently at her. ‘A solo mother,’ he said, ‘with…let’s say dubious connections. And have you had a job since you left here?’ he pressed.

‘Yes.’ No need to panic. She didn’t have to answer his questions. Pre-empting the next one, she said, ‘I don’t have a lot of money, but I own a house.’ Her parents had left it mortgage-free on their deaths. Just an ordinary three-bedroom suburban bungalow in Auckland, but a house all the same. An asset. Of course she and Dominic couldn’t stay there—she’d have to sell it—but she wasn’t going to tell Zandro of her long-term plan. ‘I can make a good life for Dominic. I’ll give up everything to make sure of it.’

‘And how long will this altruism last?’

‘It isn’t altruism. It’s love. Maternal instinct.’ Boldly she met his eyes.

He made an acid sound of disbelief.

She ignored it. ‘You could help make the changeover easy for him.’

He finished his coffee in one gulp and put down the cup, then sat back and folded his arms, seemingly thinking. ‘He’s happy here, he has everything he needs, and if you’re the loving mother you’re pretending to be you’ll leave him.’

Her heart gave a brief lurch, and she forced herself to breathe normally and stay silent.

‘I propose that you visit him as many times as you like while you’re here—to satisfy yourself he couldn’t be better off.’

He didn’t begin to understand her compulsion. A mother’s frantic need to rescue a child she felt she’d deserted was only half of it.

He paused. ‘And if it works out, we can talk about visiting rights for the future.’

‘Visits aren’t an adequate substitute for living in the same house.’

Visiting could never equal having Dominic with her, watching him grow from day to day, putting him to bed each night—all the things that went with parenting.

Maybe Zandro had misunderstood. He said, after a pause, ‘I know it’s not the same. You want to move in?’

For a moment she didn’t comprehend what he was suggesting. Then she blinked. ‘You’re inviting me here?’

Almost certainly he was ruing it. His face was stiffly set, the angularity of his features more noticeable. ‘I’d like to reassure you that your son is in the best hands, and send you home with an easy mind.’

No chance—but she didn’t say the words aloud, afraid that he’d retract. Before she’d arrived here she’d told herself that Dominic’s material needs, at the very least, would be met. Even kindness would be arranged for, if not freely given. Yet the image had haunted her of a motherless baby, perhaps alone in some empty room of a huge, cold house.

Zandro had said that his nephew didn’t lack for affection. But, too young to understand though Dominic had been, surely he must have noticed the sudden absence of his mother, felt abandoned, insecure?

‘All right,’ she said. And with an effort, ‘Thank you.’

She wouldn’t be exactly welcome, that much she knew. What would Zandro’s parents make of the astounding invitation? Judging by his father’s attitude, she could expect to be cold-shouldered if not insulted.

But she hadn’t come here to be comfortable. She’d come because Dominic needed her, because this was an obligation she couldn’t refuse.

It seemed she’d surprised Zandro yet again. His hands gripped the arms of his chair before he slowly relaxed them. ‘I’ll ask my mother to have a room prepared for you,’ he said.

She felt a little dazed. Things were moving faster than she’d expected, although he’d promised nothing except that he would not give up Dominic. Did he really believe she would stay for a while, then pronounce herself satisfied with his arrangements for his brother’s child, and tamely leave?

He didn’t, she decided, have much imagination. But she wasn’t about to point out to him that throwing a pining mother into close proximity with her stolen child was unlikely to lead her to abandon it a second time. ‘When shall I come?’

Better strike while the iron was hot, give him no chance to find some excuse to rescind.

He shrugged, though she fancied it cost him some effort to appear so nonchalant. ‘Give me time to…inform my parents that you will be staying—for a while.’

Perhaps she’d imagined the emphasis on the last phrase. He didn’t need to worry. She had no desire to remain in the Brunellesci household for any longer than it took her to persuade them that a mother’s rights took precedence over any others.

She fought another twinge of conscience. By Zandro’s own admission his mother was too old and he was too busy to give Dominic undivided attention. While Domenico apparently took some distant interest in his grandson, no doubt he left practical matters of child care to his wife and the nanny.

No matter what they thought, a paid employee couldn’t give the same unstinting devotion to Dominic she could. He was all she had in the world now.

Grief threatened to overwhelm her and she turned her head, pretending to admire a large oil colour on the wall, a luminous study of a young girl in a white dress, perched on a chair before a window where gauzy curtains floated on an invisible breeze.

It didn’t really help, so she put down the coffee cup she’d emptied and stood up. ‘I’ll go then,’ she said, ‘and pack my things.’ It wouldn’t take long. Not a naturally pushy person, nevertheless she was determined not to let him back out. ‘I hired a car in town… Can I garage it here—or will I need it? I don’t suppose I’ll be going out much.’ And if she did, she could use public transport now there was no need for discreet surveillance.

He said, ‘Return it. I’ll send a car for you tonight.’ And after a slight hesitation, ‘About seven. You may join us for dinner.’

Gracious of him, she thought snidely, but bit back the urge to say it aloud. He probably wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to his father that someone Domenico had called that woman—and, she suspected, something much worse—was about to invade his home.

She wondered if the old man might veto the idea and countermand his son.

Evidently if there had been objections Zandro had overridden them. The car arrived promptly—one of a fleet that specialised in corporate business, according to the logo on the side.

When they reached the Brunellesci house the driver spoke into the microphone, and in response the gates opened. He drove to the stone steps, where the door was opened by the housekeeper.

As the driver lifted the single suitcase out of the boot and set it on the verandah, Zandro’s deep voice said, ‘I’ll take care of that, Mrs Walker.’

He came forward, flicking a critical glance over their guest, evidently noting that she’d changed into a cool cotton dress worn with wedge-heeled sandals.

His greeting was coldly polite. ‘Good evening, Lia. Mrs Walker will take you upstairs. I’ll bring your case in a few minutes.’ He turned to speak to the driver.

The woman showed her to a large bedroom with embossed creamy-gold wallpaper, dimmed by trees outside that grew taller than the house. A bronze satin spread covered the queen-size bed. The adjoining bathroom was green-tiled and gleamed with gold fittings.

Mrs Walker left before Zandro arrived with her case, putting it down on a blanket box at the foot of the bed. ‘Do you have everything you need?’ he inquired.

‘Thank you. Yes, I think so.’ She too could be polite but not friendly.

‘You know your way to the dining room. We’ll be sitting down in about twenty minutes.’ He cast her a searching look. ‘If you’d like a drink first we’re in the front room.’

‘I’ll be down soon,’ she promised. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic if you have it.’

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before leaving.

She crossed the room to close the door behind him and leaned back against it, letting out a long breath. Zandro Brunellesci was not a man she could comfortably be in the same room with. Every time he came within touching distance she could feel the force of his personality, an aura of power, determination and authority, making her nerves skitter all over the place.

Staying in the same house with Dominic meant living with Zandro and his disquieting effect on her.

Moving away from the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the big dressing table. She looked apprehensive, her cheeks flushed with colour, eyes dark in the middle, the pupils enlarged, the green irises softened to almost grey.

She squared her shoulders, trying to banish the look. Sure, Zandro was intimidating, but she’d known that all along. Known too that she could—must—stand up to whatever obstacles he put in the way of her plans. And never let him know on what shaky foundations those plans actually rested.

One step at a time. The first was to go downstairs and face the enemy. The three faces of the Brunellesci family, ranged against her.

CHAPTER THREE

THE front room, Zandro had said. She followed the sound of voices to a door that stood ajar. The first face she saw on entering the big room was his. He was standing, talking with his father. Looking over the older man’s shoulder, he found her eyes, abruptly falling silent.

Domenico turned, his fierce gaze lighting on her as she paused in the doorway. She saw his hand tighten on the cane he held, then he drew himself up to his considerable height and gave her a curt nod. ‘Good evening, Lia.’

Walking into the room, she returned the greeting in a steady voice. Then she saw a motherly figure encased in floral silk, her greying hair pulled into a bun, ensconced on a sofa with Dominic snuggled into the angle of a comfortable lap.

The old woman looked up, her eyes wary, perhaps anxious. ‘Buona sera, Lia.’

Dominic wore some kind of one-piece pyjama suit, yellow and printed with teddy bears. Black curls covered his head, and his mouth was like a pink rosebud. Round, dark eyes regarded this new person with curiosity, and she took a couple of quick steps towards him, her arms lifting.

He turned from her and buried his face in his grandmother’s bosom, one tiny hand clutching at the shiny silk, roundly rejecting the overture.

Letting her hands fall, she felt exposed, and at a loss what to do.

Then Zandro was at her side, holding out a glass to her, his eyes commanding, willing her to take it. ‘Your gin and tonic,’ he said. ‘Drink it.’

His voice was low, with a rough edge. He took her arm and led her to a couch, where she wrapped both her hands about the glass he had pressed on her. It was cold, ice clinking as her hands trembled.

Of course Dominic didn’t recognise her. Her head knew that but unthinking instinct, the primal tug of a bond he couldn’t be expected to sense, and which had taken her unawares, had led her to make that futile gesture.

Zandro didn’t say I told you so. He sipped from his beer and told her, ‘Nicky’s often shy with new people at first. But curiosity will get the better of him.’

As if to reinforce the remark, the baby turned his head until one eye could find her. When he saw her looking back at him he immediately hid his face again.

Zandro laughed, but she didn’t join in. Her throat hurt too much.

She hadn’t known she would feel such emotion, like a warm flood tide. Children had been something she’d vaguely looked forward to in the future, before she found out about Dominic. The sensation on finally being confronted with a living, breathing baby had been something of a shock. He’d instantly become a person—a tiny person who was her responsibility. Someone she must love and care for.

Again she vowed to do that, to make any sacrifice he needed from her.

Mrs Brunellesci was looking down at him, stroking a heavily veined hand over the soft curls, murmuring something to him in Italian.

She loves him.

The thought was like a cold shower. She ought to be glad, even grateful. If Zandro saw Dominic as a responsibility, an obligation, and the old man regarded a grandson as some kind of insurance for the future of his company, at least one member of the family had given the baby genuine affection. And he loved, trusted his grandmother.

But I have to take him away.

Doubt entered her mind, whispering like a malevolent goblin. Is it fair? Can you do that to him—to her? Should you? Her stomach made a sickening revolution.

The gin was blessedly steadying. Zandro had been quite heavy-handed with it, light on the tonic.

Mrs Brunellesci asked in a heavily accented voice, ‘Your room, is all right, Lia?’

Trying to smile, she said, ‘Yes, fine. Thank you for letting me stay.’

‘Zandro says you wish to know your son. He says you have a right.’

He did? Her gaze went involuntarily to him. Again she could feel that indefinable masculine charge that seemed to hum around him.

A muffled thump drew her attention to his father. Domenic stood scowling, leaning on his stick with both hands, and as she watched he lifted it a little and brought it down again with another thump.

Zandro got up. ‘Please sit, Papa, and I’ll get you another drink,’ he offered, guiding his father to a chair.

Domenico shook him off, saying something explosive in Italian before sinking into the armchair.

Apparently unruffled, Zandro grinned, and fetched a glass of rich red wine for his father, who accepted it with a grunt and continued to scowl while he drank it.

Zandro didn’t sit down again, prowling about the room while he finished off his beer, then placing the empty glass on the drinks cabinet.

Dominic lifted his head at last from his grandmother’s protection and looked around. He wriggled down from her lap, sliding to the floor, and then on hands and knees made a beeline for his uncle.

Zandro bent as the baby drew near, picked him up and swung him high, big hands firmly holding the little boy’s body under his gleefully waving arms. Dominic giggled, and Zandro smiled up at him. He lowered the child into his arms and unselfconsciously kissed a fat cheek.

It was astonishing. Nothing in what he’d said had hinted at genuine fond feelings for his nephew.

Dominic raised a hand to pat his uncle’s face, poking a finger into his mouth. Zandro growled, pretending to relish the finger, making smacking noises with his lips, and again the baby giggles pealed.

This wasn’t as she’d assumed it would be. She felt oddly panicky.

Zandro, the baby still in his arms, strolled over to her, taking his time. He sat beside her, settling Dominic on his knees.

The baby stared solemnly at the other occupant of the sofa and Zandro said softly, ‘Nicky—this is your mother.’

‘Ma?’ He turned to his uncle again.

‘Mother,’ Zandro said. ‘Mo-ther. Mamma.’

‘Ma-ma.’ Dominic giggled some more, then struggled upright to stand on the man’s knees, exploring his face with inquisitive fingers. He lost his balance and Zandro caught him, settling him again.

This time the little boy regarded the strange woman for longer, and finally stretched out a hand. She lifted her own and he curled his around two fingers with a surprisingly strong grip. Something happened to her heart—as if those baby fingers had squeezed it too.

The nanny appeared in the doorway and briskly entered the room. ‘Time for bed?’ she said, spying her charge, and Dominic dropped the fingers he held, wriggled from Zandro’s hold and took off towards his grandmother.

The nanny snatched him into her arms, laughing, and held him while Mrs Brunellesci gave him a kiss, then Domenic did the same.

Zandro stood up as they approached him. ‘Barbara,’ he said, ‘this is Lia Cameron, Nicky’s mother. Barbara Ayreshire, Lia.’

The woman looked only slightly surprised, perhaps already forewarned. ‘Hello.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a bonny boy, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Impossible to say any more, although she ought to congratulate the woman on how well Dominic had been looked after, tell her she was pleased, thankful.

But she couldn’t do it. Rage and resentment surfaced. It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on Barbara, who was only doing—and doing well—a job that she was paid for. A job that should have been done for nothing but love, by Dominic’s own mother.

Barbara Ayreshire joined them as they sat down to dinner, placing a baby monitor on the long sideboard. She was at Domenic’s right, beside Zandro, while the elder Brunellescis took the head and foot of the table. Which left a chair on Domenic’s left for Lia.

She was conscious throughout the meal of the old man’s unbending demeanour, although he poured wine for her and passed her butter and salt; and of Zandro sitting opposite her, his nearly black eyes enigmatic when they clashed with hers and held them for moments at a time.

Refusing to lower her gaze, to meekly accept she was an unwelcome spectre at the feast and pretend she wasn’t even there, she stared back at him each time until someone claimed his attention, or the housekeeper laid another dish in front of him and he turned to thank her.

Mrs Brunellesci occasionally addressed a remark to Lia in her richly accented English. Had she had a good flight from New Zealand? What was the weather like there? How much was the time difference?

Poor woman, she was doing her best. It was a relief to turn to her and try to conduct an ordinary conversation.

The nanny inquired which part of New Zealand their visitor was from—oh, Auckland? Barbara had visited the city, also some tourist spots—Rotorua’s boiling springs and the equally popular Bay of Islands in the north. ‘What a beautiful country it is.’

Even Zandro spoke to her several times, concurring with Barbara’s opinion, asking if Lia needed sauce for her dessert, commenting that one of the cheeses presented after that was from New Zealand. He sliced off a piece, holding it out to her on the cheese knife.

She took it because it would look ungracious if she didn’t, placed it on a cracker and nibbled until it was gone. But surely they were all glad when the meal was over.

Coffee was served in the front room. While the others sat down, Barbara took her cup and excused herself, leaving with it in her hand. It would have been nice to follow suit.

‘Lia?’ Zandro stood before her, handing her a cup. ‘I’ve sugared it for you.’

‘Thank you.’ He’d remembered how she liked her coffee. That should perhaps have made her feel less alienated. Instead she was bothered. He was too observant, those gleaming impenetrable eyes not missing anything. And too often they were fixed on her as if trying to gauge her thoughts, delve into her deepest secrets.

Of which she had at least one too many. If he found her out she had no doubt there would be hell to pay.

She drank her coffee quickly and stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

‘You must be tired.’ Mrs Brunellesci’s understanding nod failed to hide her relief. ‘It’s two hours later in New Zealand, you said?’

Zandro came to the door with her. ‘Goodnight, Lia. If you need anything Mrs Walker will take care of it.’

She wouldn’t have dreamed of disturbing the housekeeper, but she nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’

Going up the stairs, a faint tingling along her spine convinced her that his too-perceptive gaze was still on her. It took an effort not to look back when she got to the top, to keep walking until she reached the relative safety of her room.

She wasn’t going to be cowed by him, or anyone.

Which room, she wondered, had they assigned to Nicky? Already she’d begun to use the family’s diminutive. It had jarred at first that he bore a nickname unknown to his own mother. But it suited him, the name he’d been given for his grandfather’s sake too burdensome for such a small person. Perhaps in time he would grow into it…and become as insensitive and judgmental as the other males in the household?

‘Not if I can help it!’ The words, spoken aloud, echoed in the big room. Despite the heat outside, she shivered. Tonight Rico’s family had been indulgent towards their youngest member, even tender and loving. Babies could be allowed to be babies. But when he became a young boy and then a man, wouldn’t he inevitably suffer as Rico had, relentlessly pressured into the family mould, bullied and browbeaten until he either knuckled down and accepted his fate, or rebelled?

Rico had rebelled, but the shadow of his family had always been there during his all-too-short time with Lia, when the two of them had lived in their own closed, defensive world.

Zandro had intruded in person on that world, breaching the cocoon they’d made for themselves. He’d looked at Lia with contempt, scarcely acknowledging her existence, and talked to his brother about family honour, about obligations, about their parents’ disappointment at Rico’s ‘ruining his life.’ About a place being ready for him whenever he came to his senses and returned to his home and family. And the sooner that happened the better.