“What did it cost?”
Rory’s eyes narrow. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“I can pay it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He steps away, restless now. Too much energy in a room designed for controlled conversations. He moves to the window, looks out at the garden, then back at me.
“Some concessions in Boston. Temporary.”
“Rory.”
“And a commitment to keep you out of Italian affairs going forward.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.” He turns fully. “You don’t see anything clearly in this house. That’s the problem.”
“I see more than you think.”
“You see hallways and locked doors and think that means you understand the cage.”
“I know it’s a cage.”
“Then leave it.”
Simple. Beautifully simple. The sort of statement that only works if one ignores everything attached.
He comes back to me and lowers his voice. “You’re not safe here.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we discussing this?”
“Because unsafe and useless are not the same.”
His expression shifts. It’s the first moment he understands he isn’t speaking to a frightened niece waiting for permission to escape. He’s speaking to my father’s daughter.
It hurts him.
“Evie,” he says carefully, “your father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Dante Vitale killed him.”
The room tightens around the name.
“You know that?” I ask.
“I know enough.”
“No. You suspect enough.”
“I know enough,” he repeats.
