His expression remains unchanged. “You’ll be safer at the estate.”
“And more visible.”
“Yes.”
At least he doesn’t insult me by lying.
“Visible to whom?” I ask.
“To everyone who needs to see you protected.”
“And everyone who needs to see me contained.”
A pause. “Yes.”
There’s no satisfaction in the admission. No apology, either.
I turn from the window to look at him properly. He’s older than my father by less than I expected and more than I want to notice. Controlled in a way that feels less like discipline and more like architecture. Men like him are not built around desire or fear or guilt. They build rooms for those things and lock them in when company comes.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Your father’s body will be returned according to your family’s rites. His people will be contacted through appropriate channels. The announcement will be managed.”
Managed.
My father’s death, reduced to a schedule. A statement. A sequence of acceptable reactions.
“And Dante?” I ask.
His hand rests on his knee. No ring except the one that matters. No nervous movement. No visible crack.
“Dante isn’t your concern.”
“My father is dead,” I say. “Everything connected to that is my concern.”
“Not everything you claim can be held.”
“That sounds like advice from someone holding too much.”
His gaze stays on mine.
Good.
I may be powerless, but I’m not decorative.
The car turns through iron gates.
I hadn’t realized we’d already reached the estate. That bothers me. I was supposed to track the route. Turns. Time. Distance. Surface. Guard points.
Instead, I was looking at him.
Stupid. Grief makes people inefficient.
I correct myself immediately. Gate: double iron. Two guards visible. Camera above the left pillar. The drive curves through cypress trees. Gravel. Long approach. The house set back far enough that arrival can be assessed before it becomes arrival.
Containment, then. Expensive containment.
The estate rises ahead, pale stone under rain-dark sky, lit from within like it has never once doubted its own survival.
