“No.”
“Then you have seen few households.”
A low sound moves through the room.
Giulio ignores it. “She has become a point of uncertainty,” he says. “Uncertainty spreads.”
“Yes.”
“Then end it.”
The orange peel turns once between my fingers. “How?”
The question isn’t an invitation. He treats it like one, anyway.
“Use her,” Giulio says. “Or eliminate her.”
There are moments when a room reveals who understands survival and who only inherited it. Marco doesn’t move. Salvatore closes his eyes for half a second. The man two seats down from Giulio looks at the table. Giulio keeps his gaze on mine.
I set the orange peel down. “Explain.”
Giulio’s mouth tightens. He expected dismissal. Explanation requires him to stand inside the ugliness of what he placed.
“If she’s useful, bind her formally,” he says. “Marriage, contract, exchange, witness management. Something the families can understand.”
“She was bound,” I point out.
“To Dante. That no longer holds.”
“Suspended.”
“Dead,” Giulio says.
The word is imprecise, but useful to him. I let him keep it.
“And if not bound,” he continues, “then remove the uncertainty. Return her with terms that close the matter. Or remove her entirely.”
“Eliminate her,” I say.
“Yes.” Giulio doesn’t retreat. “She’s one woman.”
Salvatore’s eyes open. Marco’s jaw shifts once.
One woman.
Men have died for saying less.
“She’s Seane Brennan’s daughter,” I say.
“Seane Brennan is dead. His daughter has no army.”
“No.”
“She has no proof.”
I look at him. His eyes sharpen.
There. That’s the mistake.
