Fair.
She moves to the wardrobe and begins sorting folded linens that don’t need sorting. Housekeeping as camouflage. Emotional support through textiles. I appreciate it more than I intend to admit.
“He’s gone,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Not dead.”
“No.”
“Do you think I should wish he were?”
Teresa stills, only for a second. Then continues folding. “I think wishes are often less moral than actions.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only useful one.”
I lean back in the chair. The twins object to the angle. I adjust.
They win. Again.
“Alessandro did it,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Not me.”
“No.”
“That matters.”
“Yes.”
Her agreement lands heavier than comfort would. Good. Comfort would be suspicious. Truth, at least, has the decency to bruise.
“I wanted to be the hand that did it,” I admit.
Teresa says nothing.
“I spent all this time building toward proof. Pressure. Leverage. I imagined the moment, you know. Not dramatically.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
“Fine—occasionally dramatically. I’m pregnant and surrounded by criminals. I’m allowed some theater.”
She almost smiles. Almost.
“I thought if I found enough, placed it correctly, forced them to see it, then it would be mine. My move. My justice. My father’s name in my hands.” I look at the closed file. “But Dante threatened me, and Alessandro moved.”
“Yes.”
“Not when Dante killed my father.”
“No.”
“When he threatened me.”
