I look at her for a moment before answering. There’s no point in lying to Lucia if I can avoid it. The whole house lies to her already, mostly in the name of protection.
“Probably,” I say.
She sighs. “He’s always so angry.”
“He is not always angry.”
“He is with people.”
That gets a real smile out of me, brief though it is. “That’s because most people are disappointing.”
“And are you disappointing?”
Her voice is careful around the question because we both know what she’s really asking. I rest my hand lightly on the top of her head, smoothing her hair back from her temple. “Not enough to matter.”
She doesn’t believe me; she never does when I answer her that way.
“Bring me something back,” she says, tipping her face up to mine with deliberate bravery. “Not jewelry. Something real, like a book from wherever you’re going, or those awful little spoons tourists buy.”
I raise my eyebrow. “You think I’ll buy you souvenir spoons?”
“I think you’d do it if I asked,” she says matter-of-factly, and the worst part is she’s right.
I bend down and kiss her forehead. “I’ll bring you something real,Tesoro.”
Lucia wraps her arms around my waist then, quick, fierce, and still young enough to do it without wondering if affection is dignified.
I hold her back just as tightly, and a second longer than I should. If anyone saw me like this, they’d call it softness, and they’d be right. But I don’t care.
“Come back safely, Salva,” she murmurs into my jacket.
The words land somewhere ugly in me because safe is not a promise we make in a family like ours. Safety is for people whose fathers aren’t kings of organized violence.
“I always do,” I lie gently.
The meeting lasts an entire week because men like our fathers don’t simply gather twice a year just to sit around polished tables and toast to legacy.
They gather to posture, threaten, purchase, weaken, and decide whose sons will marry, whose ports will stay open, and whose debts have grown inconvenient enough to require blood. The official schedule ends early. The real one never does.
I usually see Ruslan almost the moment I arrive and spend the next four hours pretending I don’t.
We’ve become good at ignoring each other in rooms where it matters. Better than good. We nod with the same formal politeness we offer other heirs, say the correct things when our fathers are listening, and let meetings carry on while an entire separate current runs hot and filthy under the table.
He knows how to look at me long enough to be insulting but not suspicious. I know how to answer with the exact degree of cool contempt expected from a Vieri.
The problem tonight isn’t that he looks at me too much. The problem is that he barely looks at me at all.
Dinner is held in one of the hotel’s private halls; all candlelight, crystal, and too much polished silver reflecting amber across tabletops.
Men talk business over pheasant and red wine, while wives and daughters float at the edges in silk and jewels, ornamental and observant all at once.
I’m seated halfway down the table, close enough to my father for appearances, and far enough that I can breathe between courses.
Across the room, Ruslan has a woman on his arm.
She’s beautiful in the polished way these women are trained to be. Pale blond hair swept up, diamonds at her ears, a dark green gown that clings to her body without looking vulgar.
Ruslan bends toward her, mouth curved in that lazy, dangerous half-smile he uses when he wants to look amused and harmless at the same time.
