I hate him. I really do. For saying that. For making truth sound like a door opening when it is only another wall.
“I’m not asking you to trust the rules,” he says. “I’m telling you what the consequences will be if he breaks them.”
“What consequences?”
His eyes hold mine. “If Dante comes near you without permission, I’ll remove him.”
The room goes very still.
Remove.
I should feel satisfaction. I feel nothing clean enough to name.
“Now?” I ask quietly.
His jaw tightens.
“Now,” I repeat. “Not when he killed my father. Not when you knew. Not when you sent him away and called it containment. Now.”
“Yes.”
The word is barely audible, but it breaks something open in me. I look at him and see not the don, not the father of my children, but the man who could have ended this before I everentered his house. Before I became this. Before my body made leaving a theory men could discuss.
“You should have chosen then,” I say.
“Yes.”
My throat aches. “You should have given me this version of you when my father was still warm.”
“Yes.”
“You should have made him pay.”
“Yes.”
My eyes burn. Absolutely not. Not here. Not with him. Not while his son is four days away and my children shift inside me.
I look toward the terrace. Eight exits.
No use.
“Leave,” I say.
He doesn’t move. For one moment, I think he will refuse. For one moment, I think the don will win over the man who knocked on my door.
Then he inclines his head. “Luca will remain outside.”
“Of course he will.”
“Teresa is coming with dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will eat.”
I turn back with enough venom to poison a saint.
He adds, “Because you’ll need strength.”
