She waited a moment for his angry summons but, worse than that, there was only silence and a closed door.
She knocked—as he insisted she did.
And knocked again, ignoring that he didn’t answer—deciding to ‘practise some of the assertion this job demands’. Taking a deep breath, she walked in. Afterwards, she fervently wished she hadn’t, but by then it was already too late.
He couldn’t stand it—he just couldn’t stand it!
For weeks Daniela had been ringing, every day, then every hour, and now and then his mother too.
And now had come the tears.
The pleading.
‘Familia, Luca.’
He hated familia!
‘Just this—all I ask of you, all I have done for you, all I have suffered for you!’
For him?
Always his mother twisted things—and she was twisting them now, telling him she had suffered for him, that she had taken the beatings, the hell, the agony—for him.
And now, supposedly, he had to repay the favour.
He hated this!
There was a rip of anger in him, this fury that sixteen years living away from home had only slightly dimmed, because it was always there, churning beneath the surface. His vast office was tiny, too small to contain his fury, his loathing, his hate.
Then he became distantly aware that his mobile was ringing.
Ma.
Ma.
Ma.
He picked the mobile up and threw it across the room—but still it rang.
He picked up his landline phone and tossed that too.
Ah, but soon would come the emails…
So with one swoop he cleared his entire desk of its contents, the computer, papers, his lamp, his coffee, everything, crashing in one swoop, a smash of glass and chaos, with no relief, no reprieve because Emma walked in.
‘Out!’
He roared it at her, but she just stood there, frozen.
‘Get out now!’ Except she didn’t, just stood there eyes wide in shock and then, worse, with tears in them…refusing to leave, refusing to go. So he stormed out of his office and on to the lift, pounded on the button and then gave in, resting his head on his forearm and dragging in air.
He would explain.
He must explain.
He hadn’t wanted her to see him like that…
Luca turned and walked back, calmer now, together now, and then he saw her.
Kneeling on the floor, crying and scared and shaking, picking up the lamp, retrieving shards of glass—trying to clear up the chaos so that it might appear to have never happened.
It could have been his mother twenty years ago— only this time it was he who had caused the chaos, and he who had reduced Emma to frightened tears.
‘I’m sorry!’ Her voice was shaky as she took the blame, and that was what almost killed Luca. ‘I should never have put her through to you.’
It almost killed him, because Luca realised with a dread that had been building for years now—he was turning into his father.
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