He looked up at the screen, squinting at the quote as if seeing it for the first time. “Yeah, well, when you have power, you have money and you’re on TV and stuff, so we know what people are like.”
I was too tired to hide my grimace, or to ignore the fact that I had probably just lost three IQ points listening to that sentence.
“I don’t think that’s quite what Robert Ingersoll meant,” I said carefully, “given that he died in 1899.”
Ben shrugged. “Could’ve been.”
I inhaled deeply and glanced at the clock on the wall.
Twenty minutes to go.
“Anyone else?”
“Power has the potential to corrupt anyone who holds it. That’s why it’s the true test of character.”
I looked up so fast at the sound of the voice I knew far too well that I nearly hurt my neck.
There he was.
Standing at the back by the door, coffee in one hand, looking offensively composed for someone who had wrecked my entire night. And, as if that weren’t enough, the travel cup he was holding was yet another capybara design — this one pink. It should have looked ridiculous in the hand of a man dressed entirely in shades of black and gray.
It didn’t.
Damn him. Damn the sleep deprivation. Damn my traitorous brain.
“Is that right?” I asked.
Pietro took another sip of coffee, entirely unbothered by the twenty pairs of eyes that had turned toward him.
“Yes,” he said. “Power reveals character because it removes inconvenience. When someone no longer needs permission, approval, or restraint to get what they want, you see what they were always inclined to do.”
The room had gone noticeably quieter.
Even Ben looked confused enough to stop texting.
I folded my arms. “That’s one interpretation.”
Pietro inclined his head slightly, as if granting me the point while not conceding anything. “It’s more than that. Most people like to think corruption begins with power, but usually it only magnifies what was already there. Cruel men become careless. Weak men become obedient to stronger ones. Greedy men stop pretending their greed serves anyone but themselves.”
A few students had actually started taking notes now.
Traitors.
I should have cut him off. But there was something almost unnerving in the ease with which he spoke—like someone describing a system he understood too well to romanticize.
He went on, apparently deciding he had not yet caused me enough trouble for one morning.
“The more interesting question is what people do when power gives them the option to be cruel without interference.”
Something cold moved down my spine.
“Because that,” he added, his voice even, “is where character stops being theory.”
The conversation had evolved. We were still here, in public, in a fluorescent classroom at nine-thirty on a Monday morning, yet it felt like he was handing me something else beneath the words. Not an answer exactly. More like clues.
“And what does that mean to you, Mr.…?”
His grin widened. “Benetti.”
