Why does his brother have a different last name?
“If you do not stop seeing my daughter, I will write to your brother.” Angelina had penned a letter already to the abbot, but so far, she had received no reply.
He stopped, his hand on the doorknob.
“He is at the St. Francis de Sales Seminary in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.” Her voice echoed up and down the quiet lane. It was nearly midnight, and the windows of nearly all the houses were dark.
“You wouldn’t do that,” he remarked in an undertone, laced with an edge of menace.
“You have not told your brother about Graziella, have you?” she said in her high, penetrating voice. The echoes reverberated.
“Angelina.” He came towards her, his voice low. “Keep out of this.”
“You don’t know my brother.”
“How do you know that?”
He stopped dead, his face draining of color. She had got under his skin again. But why this glimmer of fear in his face?
A sudden thought occurred to her. “How strange,” she said, raising her face to the waning moon, which had the effect of projecting her voice still further, “that your brother has a different last name than you.”
His fingers clenched around an iron railing that edged the small garden in front of his lodgings.
“Aha,” she said jabbing a finger at him. “You did not know I had found that out. I asked Father Walsh, and he showed me your records.”
He shot out of the shadows and grabbed her arm, his steel fingers sinking into her soft flesh.
“Leave me alone, you bitch,” he spat, droplets hitting her face.
Angelina grimaced and twisted away, but he clung on.
“I will leave you alone the day you leave my daughter alone,” she screamed to the accompaniment of twitching drapes.
Intrigued? Visit your favorite retailer on 1 July to claim your special offer!
Categories: The Writing Life