Evie answers before I can. “That I belong to him, I suppose, because of the contract. Even though he’s the one who voided the contract by…”
She stops herself just in time. But we all know what she’s referring to. She looks out the window. “Of course. I’m territoryagain. How reassuring. I was worried pregnancy might promote me to actual infrastructure.”
“Evie.”
“No, let’s be precise.” She turns back. “He sees me as something taken from him.”
“Yes.”
“And the twins?”
“As succession pressure.”
Her hand moves to her stomach now. “Did you correct him?”
“Yes.”
“And did he become corrected?”
“No.”
Her mouth tightens. “Then the word remains aspirational. If he comes near me, I’ll not wait politely for you to decide which code applies.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice lowers. “I mean it. I’m tired of being the thing men move to prevent bigger wars. I’m tired of being contained for my own good. I’m tired of surviving quietly because noise inconveniences powerful men.”
Her hand presses to her stomach. “I’ll protect them.”
Chapter 29
First Contact
POV:Evie
The first rule of proximity is that distance lies. A man can be across the ocean and still sit at the table with you every morning. A man can be locked in the south wing with guards, orders, restrictions, and the full weight of Alessandro Vitale’s displeasure arranged around him like expensive furniture and still find a hallway.
That’s the trouble with houses. They pretend walls are choices. They’re merely suggestions.
I see Dante for the first time since my father’s death outside the portrait gallery at 11:37 in the morning.
This is just rude. One expects murderers to appear at midnight. Possibly in the rain. Somewhere with shadows, dramatic architecture, and the decency to announce themselves with ominous music.
Not before lunch. Not while I’m carrying folded fabric samples because Teresa has decided the north rooms require “adjustment,” and apparently adjustment comes in the form of linen.
I’m alone for ninety seconds. That’s all. Ninety seconds between Teresa being called toward the lower stair and Luca’s replacement taking position at the far end of the hall.
I know because I count. Not exits this time. Just the seconds.
One.
Two.
Three.
The portrait gallery is long, polished, and lined with dead Vitales who all seem to share the same genetic commitment to judgment. Tall men in dark clothes. Pale women with careful hands. Children painted like future disappointments.
There are five exits. Main stair behind me. North corridor ahead. Music room doors. Service passage hidden behind the third panel. Window alcove with breakable glass and a drop that would be complicated for a pregnant woman.
