Should the princess be allowed to leave her castle?
I think about her on the other side of the door I just walked through, sitting up in my bed with her hand still where mine had been a minute ago, listening to the elevator come for me.
I type back.
No.
The doors open.
I get in.
21
RAFFAELE
The Conti family headquarters haven’t changed in twenty years.
Same brownstone on the same quiet block. Same brass plate at the door. Same long marble entry hall with the long oil portrait of Vincenzo’s father at the end of it.
Two of Nico’s people are in the foyer. Neither of them quite meets my eye. The one I trained—Eddie, twelve years on the floor—gives me half a nod.
“They’re upstairs.”
“Where.”
“The blue room.”
“Who.”
“Mr. Conti. The son. Just them.”
“Anyone in the hall.”
“No, sir.”
I walk up the stairs.
The blue room is not blue. It’s named for a rug that hasn’t been in there since 1998. It’s the room Vincenzo holds family meetings in— sporting twelve-foot ceilings, dark wood, a long table that seats fourteen on the rare occasions there are fourteen. Today there will be only three.
I push the door open.
Nico is already on his feet.
He’s not at the table. He’s by the window, pacing the small lane of carpet between the chair and the bookshelf, and I can see from the doorway that he hasn’t slept. His shirt collar is loose. His hair is damp at the roots.
The suit, though? The suit is immaculate. Nico has never managed much in this life, but he learned the first rule of the famiglia early: dress before you speak.
Vincenzo is at the head of the table.
He’s slouched. One hand on a glass. The other on the arm of the chair. The glass holds whiskey; it’s eleven in the morning. His eyes find me, and there’s the edge of a smile at his mouth that doesn’t survive long enough to count.
“Finally.” Nico stops pacing. “The man of the hour.”
I take a seat at the long table. Three from the head. The chair I’ve always taken. I unbutton my jacket and sit.
“Nothing to say?”
Nico slams both palms flat on the table.
