Chapter Forty-Five

Roberto wanted to go to her. To fold Isabella in his arms and take her away from this cave. He had overheard the Communist’s words, and they raised a black hatred in his heart for the man who could rise from Isabella’s bed and tear another woman’s life apart. Isabella’s head hung down, hiding her face and her shame behind her hair, her curls as tangled and snarled as he knew her emotions must be.

She’d heard enough.

When the Communist said, “Tell her the rest,” Roberto had moved closer to her, ready to snatch her away from the words that carried what they called the truth. Truth? Truth was never absolute. It was never finite. The truth was that this Communist was a killer, and now Roberto and Isabella had become killers. They all had their reasons for doing what they did, so who was to say that Allegra Bianchi was in the wrong when she pulled the trigger?

“Tell me, Papa. Tell me the rest.” Isabella didn’t lift her head.

Her father said nothing for a long moment and then exhaled a harsh breath of resignation. “Very well. Allegra took revenge by shooting Luigi. She tried to kill you too because she believed at that time that he must have told you what he’d done.” His gaze lingered on his daughter.

“Go on, Papa. I’m listening.”

“She had a bullet wound in her leg. A policeman had fired on her when she was fleeing the building that she’d used to ambush you and Luigi. She came to me. I patched her up.”

“You helped her? While I was almost dying in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

Roberto saw her flinch. But she said no more.

“She came to me again a month later,” Dr. Cantini continued. “She was pregnant. She asked me to terminate it.” The words seemed to stick on his tongue. “The baby was Luigi’s.”

Isabella’s head shot up. Her eyes were huge.

“Did you do as she asked?”

“No.”

A silence, thick as fog, filled the cave.

“Rosa is that child?” Isabella whispered.

“Yes.”

“Rosa is Luigi’s child.”

“Yes.”

Carlo Olivera raised his head from the straw. “That’s why she brought her to you.” His voice was raw. “I love Rosa like my own child, but Allegra never forgave her for being his.”

Isabella did not move. Did not seem to breathe.

“The carabinieri were right on her heels,” Olivera explained, “the day she came to Bellina. I can only guess that she’d had enough. Too many years on the run, never having a home, or knowing when the knock on the door would come to say I was dead.” He let his head fall back on the straw, the tendons in his neck taut. “I did that to my wife.”

It was finished. Roberto strode over, wrapped an arm around Isabella, and lifted her to her feet.

“You tried to make me stay away from Rosa, Papa.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Her father pushed himself heavily to his feet and studied her intently. “I didn’t want you involved in any of this, because—”

“You were wrong,” Roberto interrupted. “Isabella needed to know what had happened. You’re a doctor, couldn’t you see what it was doing to her? It was your duty as her father to tell her.”

Roberto took hold of Isabella’s arm and walked her toward the veil of greenery that obscured the cave entrance. “Let’s find Rosa,” he said.

She turned her face to him. “Yes, it’s time to find Rosa.”