My body goes very still.
Rehabilitation means Dante. No one else in this house receives virtue wrapped in bureaucracy.
Marco sees the change in my face. “Miss Brennan.”
I move. Luca doesn’t stop me this time. Perhaps because stopping me would require force. Perhaps because the word has already done the damage. Perhaps because men are always slower when they know the truth has left the room ahead of them.
The council doors aren’t fully closed. That’s their mistake. Or Alessandro’s decision. With him, it’s rarely useful to assume anything is accidental.
I stop beside the gap. Not in view. Inside, the room holds too many men and not enough oxygen. Alessandro sits at the head of the table. I can see only part of him through the opening. One hand resting flat beside a glass of water he has not touched. Black suit. White cuff. Stillness sharpened into rank.
Salvatore sits to his right. Giulio stands near the far end, one hand braced on the table as if physical contact with polished wood improves moral authority.
“The matter has been reviewed,” Giulio says. “The holding has served its purpose.”
Served its purpose.
Giulio continues. “The council agrees the time has come for Dante Vitale to be reintegrated into family operations under supervision.”
Reintegrated.
Like a misplaced organ. My hands go cold. One of the twins moves.
No. Not now. I keep one hand at my side and make the other into a fist.
Inside the room, another man says, “His absence has raised questions.”
“His presence will raise more,” Salvatore replies.
Giulio’s tone hardens. “His absence suggests instability in the don’s house.”
Alessandro speaks then. “Dante is unstable.”
The room tightens. So do I.
Giulio’s silence lasts a fraction too long. “Which is why a controlled return is necessary.”
“A controlled return to what?” Alessandro asks.
“To the family.”
“He hasn’t earned that.”
“He’s your son.”
The words enter me like cold water.Your son. My father’s killer. His son.A bloodline branch gone diseased and protected because men call family sacred when they mean useful.
Alessandro’s hand remains flat on the table. “Blood isn’t discipline.”
“No,” Giulio says. “But blood is structure. The council will not support an indefinite exile of your only son while an Irish woman carries?—”
Silence drops just then. Hard. I can’t see Alessandro’s face. I can only feel the room responding to it.
Giulio stops speaking because survival has finally become more persuasive than opinion.
My palm presses against my stomach before I can stop it. So they know. Of course they know. Five months with twins has made any secrecy theater. But hearing about it in that room, between those men, like another territory under discussion, makes my throat close.
Alessandro’s voice is very soft when he says, “Finish that sentence.”
