“You have no children,” she says. “What would you know about it?”
I think about the families I’ve protected over the years. I think about the mothers, the fathers. I think about the things I’ve seen and the calculations I’ve had to make.
Then I think about the families I've encountered on all my tours. They may not all be the same, and not all of them have the same principles. But among the ones with similar principles, one thing does remain the same, no matter what.
“No,” I say quietly. “I don’t. But I’ve protected enough families to know that a child’s safety is the one thing a parent will compromise every other principle for.”
She looks at me for a long second.
I let her look. I don’t soften the truth.
Finally, she shakes her head and looks away.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
She puts the foil back over the chicken container. The motion is precise. Controlled. A way to anchor herself when everything else is shifting.
"No, you don't," she says, her hands busy.
“Bianca has been bringing her children into the restaurant since they were born. Olivia has been doing the same. Papà and Elena have been bringing Alessandra and Cristiano to the casino garden. It’s normal. It’s how we live. We don’t hide our children away like they’re dirty secrets.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” she says, and the anger is closer to the surface now, raw and painful. “Because that’s what it felt like in there. You talked about them like they were liabilities. Variables in a risk assessment you could either account for or discard.”
“Because that is exactly how an enemy will see them,” I say. “And the faster you accept that, the faster you can do something about it.”
She lifts her head. Her eyes are bright in the warm kitchen light.
“Do you have any idea what you’re asking? What it means to keep children from the places that are their whole lives? To make them prisoners in their own homes because some nameless coward sends a note? To make their mothers prisoners? That’s not living. That’s a siege.”
“Their mothers and fathers have already agreed, Caterina," I say. "It's you who's pushing back on this right now. Not them.”
Her expression shifts, the righteous anger faltering just enough to let the fear show through again.
“Because they’re scared,” she says, but there’s less conviction in it.
“Of course they’re scared,” I say. “They’re parents. They see danger, and they want to wrap their children up and lock the door and throw away the key."
"That can't happen," she says, walking to the cabinet and grabbing plates with sharp movements. "This situation can't last forever. It can't."
She turns back around, and the plates in her hands tremble.
"I refuse to let this become their new normal."
"It won't," I assure her.
Her gaze drops to the island again. She’s breathing harder than she was a minute ago.
“They trusted us,” she whispers. “When they married into this family, they trusted us to keep them safe. Not to turn their children into targets for every rival with a grudge and a lack of scruples.”
And now I understand a little bit better. She's not just angry on behalf of the children. She's guilty. She feels responsible.
Not for the threat, but for the lives that have been caught up in it because of their connection to her name. The Conti name.
I lean a hip against the counter, keeping my posture relaxed even as my words sharpen.
