“You can. Until the council asks why.”
“They won’t ask twice.”
“They already are.”
She shouldn’t know that, but of course she does. Teresa. Corridors. Doors left open. Men who speak because they assume grief makes women deaf.
I almost smile. Almost. Instead, I return to the desk and lift the report again, reading, “‘Dante’s behavior has improved.’”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.” I continue reading. “‘He has remained sober. He has obeyed the estate restrictions. He has requested Confession. He has expressed remorse.’”
Her face empties. “Remorse,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“For killing my father?”
The paper feels heavier than it is. “For what he’s done.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Evie—”
“No.” She lifts one hand. Not pleading. Stopping me. “Don’t make it sound better than it is. He feels guilty because guilt has become useful to him. He wants back in. He wants his money, his name, his place, his life.” Her voice lowers. “Maybe he even wants the wife he was promised.”
The muscles in my jaw tighten. She sees that, too.
She sees too much.
“Would you let him?” she asks.
“No.”
“Because he killed my father?”
Silence. Her expression changes again. There’s the blade. Not in her hand. In mine.
Because the answer should be simple. Because if I say yes, I admit what I have refused to put on record. Because if I say no, I become exactly what she already knows I am.
A man who protected his son until protecting him became inconvenient.
She nods once, as if I’ve spoken. “That’s what I thought.”
I move before she can turn away. “You’re not going back to him,” I say.
Her eyes lift. That should be enough.
It’s not.
“Why?” she asks.
Because he does not deserve to breathe the same air as you. Because he broke something I had already damaged. Because the contract was a mistake the moment your father signed it. Because if Dante comes back and reaches for you, I will remove the hand. Because the thought of you wearing my son’s name makes something ancient and ugly move in me.
I say none of it. I only say, “Because I said so.”
Her mouth parts. Anger returns, clean and bright. “Careful, Don Vitale.”
