That got more silence.
Then, in a mutter meant more for himself than for me, “It is a terrible thing to have a son exactly like his father.”
I leaned back in my seat. “You know that’s an insult to yourself, don’t you?”
“I do, yes.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth shifted.
He was quiet, then asked, more evenly now, “What did Doyle say?”
So I told him. The percentage. The trial run. The logic. The fallback if Jersey escalated instead of settling.
By the time I finished, the anger in his silence had become more thoughtful.
Finally he said, “You negotiated that yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And he agreed?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Three percent is satisfactory.”
That, from Alessandro Benetti, was practically effusive praise.
Olivero heard it too. His brows lifted a fraction.
My father sighed. “You should have called me first.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still going to finish your degree before you come back here and start behaving like a problem full-time.”
“I’m aware.”
“Good.” His voice softened by a degree that most men would have missed. “I am proud of you, Pietro.”
The words landed with their usual force.
They always would.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t make me repeat it. You’ll ruin the moment.”
“Perish the thought.”
He let out something that might once have been a laugh. “Go home. I’ll speak to Doyle tomorrow and formalize it. And if you do anything else behind my back tonight, at least try to make it less interesting for the people who report to me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That is exactly what worries me.”
The call ended a minute later, just as we turned onto my street.
