“Take him,” I say.
Luca moves. As they pass Evie, Dante turns his head, but Luca stops him before his eyes reach her.
“Forward,” Luca says.
Dante obeys.
The corridor clears. Marco follows to oversee removal. Salvatore remains. Evie remains. I remain.
The paperweight is still on the floor. I bend, pick it up, and place it on the gallery table. My hand is steady, but that means nothing.
Evie speaks first. “You didn’t kill him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Too merciful.”
She studies my face, then nods once. She understands. Of course she does.
“He’ll try to come back,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He will fail.”
“You’re sure.”
“No,” I say.
Her eyes lift in alarm.
“I will make sure,” I say.
That answer, she accepts.
Salvatore clears his throat softly. “I’ll convene Marco and the internal council.”
“In one hour,” I say.
“Yes.”
He leaves. Now only Evie and I remain in the gallery, surrounded by the painted dead. She looks tired. Too tired.
I step toward her and stop before the distance becomes assumption. “Sit,” I say.
Her eyebrow lifts. Wrong. I correct myself before she can speak.
“Please,” I add, though that word costs me more than the public admission.
She sits slowly on the bench beneath Isabelle’s portrait, of all places. The house has poor taste in symbolism, or excellent. I stand before her. Her hand rests on her swollen stomach.
“You said Seane’s name,” she says.
“Yes.”
