“Then what?”
“You won’t approach her.”
His eyes harden. “Because she’s carrying your children.”
He makes “children” sound like an insult.
“Yes,” I say.
He looks away first. Good.
“Twins,” he says.
The word carries calculation now. He knows what the council knows. He knows what Giulio thinks. He knows succession has shifted under his feet.
He doesn’t yet understand how completely.
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.” His jaw tightens again. The alcohol beneath the mint grows sharper as he breathes through the anger.
This is worse than I expected. I allowed the arrival because the council made the alternative more dangerous. That’s the failure. Not that Dante is unchanged. That I’m still working around the unchanged nature of him.
A man can be managed. A son becomes an excuse to delay correction. That’s the old fracture. I recognize it, though recognition isn’t yet action. That’s the problem.
We proceed to the south wing. His rooms are prepared without indulgence. Bedroom. Sitting room. Bath. No balcony access. Windows sealed with internal locks. Two guards in the corridor. One exterior patrol beneath the windows. No private phone. Calls routed. Deliveries checked.
He sees all of it.
His smile returns. “This is charming.”
“It’s sufficient.”
“It’s a prison.”
“No.”
“No?”
“A prison is punishment. This is assessment.”
He turns to me. “And if I fail the assessment?”
“Then the assessment ends.”
Something moves in his eyes. Fear.
Good.
Then anger covers it.
Bad.
He walks to the sideboard. No alcohol. He opens the cabinet. Empty. Closes it, too hard. The sound cracks across the room.
Luca shifts at the door, and I lift one hand.Stop.
Dante looks at the cabinet. “Very thorough.”
