Because the worst part is not even Papà deciding this. Not entirely.
It’s Vito.
Or maybe not him alone, but the fact that I found out late last night that when this Adrian Donato got into town, he didn’t go to meet Papà first.
He went to Vito’s house.
I squeeze more conditioner into my palm than I need.
Of course he did.
Of course.
And yes, I know exactly what the logic is supposed to be. Vito is the heir. Vito is the next Don.
Vito’s responsibility in family matters has only expanded since he and Teresa moved back from Pittsburgh. I know all of that. I know the structure. I know why people defer to him. I know why Papà trusts him with operational details. I know why a man coming in for an assignment tied to a threat against the family would be brought into that orbit first.
I know it.
I still hate it.
Because Vito is my brother, not my keeper.
He is not the one who has to put up with this man in his space.
He is not the one whose house is about to stop feeling like his own.
He is not the one whose movements will be tracked and assessed, and probably criticized, by somebody with military training and a security background and a whole professional vocabulary built around risk and compliance and the assumption that his judgment matters more than the principal’s comfort.
So why is he the one meeting him?
Why is he the one getting the first look?
Why is he the one discussing my life before I’ve even laid eyes on the man?
It makes my teeth clench.
I quickly finish my shower, turn off the water, and stand there for a second in the steam with water sliding down my skin.
The bathroom is warm now, the mirror fogged over, the air thick. I reach for a towel and wrap it around myself, then another around my hair, and walk to the sink, leaving damp footprints on the tile. I brush my teeth, and take care of my skincare, and walk back into the bedroom.
The house is still quiet.
Usually I like that.
This morning it just makes me more aware of myself moving through it. My room. My dresser. My clothes laid out where I leftthem last night because I already knew I was going to want one less thing to think about today.
I drop my towel and start getting dressed.
Black skirt. Cream blouse. Gold hoops. Watch. My usual choices, sharp enough for the office, easy enough to move in.
I do my makeup at the vanity by muscle memory, but my thoughts keep running hot underneath everything.
What is he like?
The question annoys me on principle.
I do not want to care. I do not want to wonder. I do not want to give this man that much space in my head before I’ve even met him. But my mind keeps going there anyway because uncertainty is its own irritation, and right now this stranger is one large moving question mark dropped directly into the middle of my life.
