Turning Point||Book 2

12: Romano.

"Skylar Vance, that's the name Xenia goes by under the radar," Ottavio revealed, finally delivering a much-needed breakthrough after newly five long months. But damn, Skylar sounded intriguing and perhaps even formidable. Vance, on the other hand, left me with some reservations. This was undeniably good news, yet the lingering "but" left me curious about what else Ottavio had to share.

"What else?" My eyes dropped to the gravels under my sole.

"It is linked to a pen name; X.T.B. I think that stands for—"

"Xenia Thompson Butler. Clever girl. So she's got a way with words?" Not surprised, really. She had that writer's touch, that way of articulating thoughts. If only she hadn't slipped away from me, I could've discovered more about her, beyond what we cautiously disclosed months ago. "Where's she been hiding?"

"Sicily, as we already knew. And hey, Xenia hasn't just been evading you, she's plotting against you. There's this publishing company, Bright Bird. She's been collaborating with them for months, writing a book about the TIF"

"What?" My mind exploded, anger surging through me. Immediately, I felt like I was losing control.

"The luncheon is next week — where they release this dreadful book. I'm currently in Sicily. If you want a ticket to this event, I can get you one."

Ottavio's words weren't registering in my head as my mind was preoccupied with something else. It was foolish what she had done, to write a book on the TIF and go ahead to publish it. She knew better. I had taught her better.

Whatever she was planning to do with this story was none of my business. The only thing I cared about now was to stop any copy of it from selling, by any means necessary. We were losing the game in Bologna already, she couldn't destroy Sicily for us too.

I sidled into my car after the driver held the door open for me. "I don't want tickets, Ottavio. What I want are; the date of this fucking luncheon, the address of the publishing company, and Xenia's home address. She's not selling a copy of that book, not while I live. You can be sure of that."

I hung up.

The driver shut the car door. He went to the front and then shifted his position in his seat to take charge of the wheels. Just as the car began to accelerate, I reached into my pocket and dug out the cord I'd strangled my father with. Anxiety coursed through me as I felt the lingering pain in my palms from tugging the item. Heart racing with a thundering beat, I replayed the events, trying to come to terms with what I had just done.

No man, regardless of how ruthless he may be, would have the courage to confront the reality of having killed his own father, even if his father was considered worthless.

God, I could feel the weight of it all; his groans, his unspoken words, his struggles — weighing heavily on my chest. Every passing moment felt like an eternity, every thought felt like a punishment. As realization was coming to dance in front of my gaze, my stomach was sinking into a pit of despair.

The hum of the engine and the motion of the car only served to amplify this state I was tumbling into, making it hard to focus on anything but the thoughts of my father's body stiff on the floor, after I'd murdered him in cold blood.

"Take the left turn," I told my driver because I wasn't really ready to go home. I wanted to ride around town until guilt departed from me and I had enough balls to look at my mother. He may have been a bad man, he certainly wasn't a bad husband. Although he may not have been a good father to me, Bianca, Emilia, and Gina had a different experience and could not say the same.