Free The Malaspiga Exit by Evelyn Anthony

cheated. They’re not so easy to hate. They’ve been friendly to you, and you don’t like spying on them. Also you’re in Florence, and the States and what happened to your brother seems a little far away. A bad dream? Am I exaggerating?’
    â€˜No,’ Katharine said quietly. ‘I don’t think you are.’
    He leaned back in his chair, tipping it a little.
    â€˜Ben Harper thought this might happen,’ he said. ‘He’s a very good psychologist. Tell me something—do you want to give up and go home?’
    â€˜No,’ Katharine answered. ‘I’d never forgive myself if I did that.’
    â€˜Just self-doubt, a little weakening of motive, is that all?’
    â€˜They’re my relations,’ she said slowly. ‘My grandmother was a Malaspiga. That’s why I was chosen.’
    â€˜Oh? And you’ve been taken to the bosom of your family—no wonder you feel uncomfortable. I know how strong the blood-tie is with all Italians. Even of humble origin.’ For the first time she sensed hostility. He hadn’t minded her confession of nervousness, her irrational sense of guilt for what she was doing, but he resented her connection with the Malaspigas.
    He leaned towards her across the table.
    â€˜You asked me if I knew about you. I didn’t know you were one of them . Harper didn’t tell me that. But he expected you to have second thoughts, and so he prepared me for it. Before you feel guilty about betraying family trust, or allow yourself to be seduced by their charm, there is one thing that you should know, which Harper didn’t tell you. The real reason why your brother died, just when it seemed that he had a chance of being cured.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ she said. ‘What do you mean, the real reason …’
    â€˜He spent six weeks in the clinic outside New York, didn’t he? Then three months at the convalescent home. They told you he was rehabilitated, that the miracle had happened. He was off heroin and there was hope, for the first time.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she whispered. Tears had come into her eyes. The memory was vivid. Peter coming back with her in the car, looking alert, able to smile and talk about the future; he’d put on weight, he looked in possession of himself for the first time in years. She would never forget that afternoon. Hope, the Italian had said. The staff of the home had come out to see them off, shaking hands and waving as they drove away. She put a hand up to her eyes as if to shut the memory out.
    â€˜He was going to live,’ Raphael persisted. ‘You thought you’d won, didn’t you? For the first few days you stayed with him day and night, watching him, not quite believing it was true—and then you went out to the theatre. He stayed at home.’
    â€˜I’ve never forgiven myself,’ she said.
    Raphael was a hard man, inured to pain by long experience. He didn’t flinch at the misery he saw on her face.
    â€˜When you came home,’ he said, ‘he’d disappeared. I can imagine how you felt. The anxiety, the despair. Admitting to yourself that it had all been an illusion. You never saw him alive again, did you?’
    â€˜No.’ She said it very low. ‘No. When I got to Bellevue he was dead.’
    â€˜He was murdered,’ Raphael said. ‘When they found him he was lying in a back street, unconscious from an overdose. His body was badly bruised. Your brother didn’t go out to look for drugs; the pusher came and looked for him. As soon as he was left alone, they came and forced a fix on him. He must have struggled, from the way he was marked. He didn’t want it. But they made him. He was underweight and weak. He hadn’t a chance. They gave him a lethal dose and took him out of your apartment to die in the street. You mustn’t cry—people are watching you.’
    â€˜I don’t care,’ she