Cesar pushed down the spreading blackness within him and said with ominous quiet, ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
But he could see from the dawning shock that his half-brother did, and Cesar didn’t like the way something inside him tightened at that recognition. Those light green eyes widened imperceptibly. He paled.
Cesar’s voice was rough in the still, quiet air. ‘She brought you to my home—you must have been nearly three, and I was almost seven. She wanted to take me with her then, but I wouldn’t leave. Not after she’d abandoned me.’
In a slightly hoarse voice Falcone asked, ‘Who are you?’
Cesar smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’m your older brother—half-brother. My name is Cesar Da Silva. I came today to pay my respects to the woman who gave me life…not that she deserved it. I was curious to see if any more would crawl out of the woodwork, but it looks like it’s just us.’
Christakos erupted. ‘What the hell—?’
Cesar cast him a cold glance. Somewhere deep down he felt a twinge of conscience for imparting the news like this, on this day. But then he recalled the long, aching years of dark loneliness, knowing that these two men had not been abandoned, and crushed it ruthlessly.
Falcone still looked slightly shell-shocked. He gestured to his half-brother. ‘This is Alexio Christakos…our younger brother.’
Cesar knew exactly who he was—who they both were. He’d always known. Because his grandparents had made sure he’d known every single little thing about them. He bit out, ‘Three brothers by three fathers…and yet she didn’t abandon either of you to the wolves.’
He stepped forward then, and Alexio stepped forward too. The two men stood almost nose to nose, Cesar topping his youngest brother in height only by an inch.
He gritted out, ‘I didn’t come here to fight you, brother. I have no issue with either of you.’ Liar, a small voice chided.
Alexio’s mouth thinned, ‘Only with our dead mother, if what you say is true.’
Cesar smiled, but it was bitter. ‘Oh, it’s true all right—more’s the pity.’ He stepped around Alexio then, before either man could see the rise of an emotion he couldn’t name, and walked to the open grave.
He took the velvet pouch out of his pocket and dropped it down into the dark space, where it fell onto the coffin with a hollow thud. In the pouch was a very old silver medallion featuring the patron saint of bullfighters: San Pedro Regalado.
Even now the bitter memory was vivid. His mother was in a black suit, hair drawn back, Her features as exquisitely beautiful as any he’d ever seen. Eyes raw from crying. She’d taken the medallion from where it hung around her neck on a piece of worn rope and had put it around his neck. She had tucked it under his shirt and said, ‘He will protect you, Cesar. Because I can’t at the moment. Don’t ever take it off. And I promise I will come back for you soon.’
But she hadn’t come back. Not for a long time. And when she finally had it had been too late. Something had withered and died inside him. Hope.
Cesar had taken off the medallion the night he’d let that hope die. He’d been six years old. He’d known then that nothing could protect him except himself. She deserved to have the medallion back now—he’d had no need of it for a long time.
Eventually Cesar turned and walked back to where his half-brothers were still standing, faces inscrutable. He might have smiled, if he’d been able, to recognise this familiar trait. An ache gripped him in the region of his chest where he knew his heart should be. But as he knew well, and as he’d been told numerous times by angry lovers, he had no heart.
After a taut silence Cesar knew he had nothing to say to these men. These strangers. He didn’t even feel envy any more. He felt empty.
He turned and got into the back of his car and curtly instructed his driver to go. It was done. He’d said goodbye to his mother, which was more than she’d ever deserved, and if there was one tiny piece of his soul that hadn’t shrivelled up by now then maybe it could be saved.