“Not officially.”
“Meaning he knows.”
“Likely.”
“And that I’m here?”
“Yes.”
“And that I was supposed to marry him before he killed my father?”
Alessandro says nothing.
I turn back. “Say it.”
His face hardens by a fraction. Good. “Before he killed your father,” he says.
I close my eyes once, because if I look at him while hearing that sentence, I may break something no one can repair.
When I open them, he’s still there. Men like Alessandro do not retreat when their guilt enters the room. They simply stand beside it, as if prepared to own it like furniture.
“What are the terms?” I ask.
“He returns to the north wing,” Alessandro says. “Separate staff. Two guards assigned directly to Luca. No access to operations. No accounts. No council attendance without my approval. No unsupervised movement beyond the inner courtyard.”
“And me?”
“No contact.”
I laugh. “You think rules stop men like Dante?”
“No.”
“Then why tell me that?”
“Because if he breaks them, the violation becomes formal.”
“Formal,” I repeat. “A blessed word. My father should have tried being murdered formally. Perhaps it would have moved things along.”
“Dante will not touch you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“How reassuring. I’ll embroider that beside ‘Rehabilitation Complete.’”
“He won’t reach you.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“I can.”
“No.” I step closer. “You can manage risk. You can assign guards. You can lock doors and route doctors and move women into safer rooms while calling it strategy. You cannot guarantee what a desperate man will do inside a house full of people who have spent years pretending his violence is background noise.”
Silence. That lands. I know it does, because Alessandro doesn’t answer immediately.
Then he says, “You’re right.”
