Page 62 of Dishonored

For Aria.

For anyone in their direct vicinity.

Mae shot Aria a small smile—her silent appreciation and thanks. Aria returned it with a subtle nod, and then reached for her wine glass to empty what was left of it. For the remainder of the dinner, Aria mostly stayed quiet and watched her young sister-in-law engage with members of their clan that Aria considered close enough to be allowed in her home.

These dinners were commonplace, and needed. Long after the food was done, and the guests who were not part of business—like Mae—were gone, then Aria would sit down with the men and a few women, and discuss whatever was needed for the clan. Business, an upcoming arrangement, or even the next attack on the Accardo Cosa Nostra.

Whatever was needed.

It was the ringing of the house phone that quieted the conversation at the table in a flash. Aria stood, waving to her guests for them to continue their conversation, before she stepped out of the dining room to grab the cordless phone in the kitchen.

It only took her one look at the number on the screen to know who was calling … and probably why, too.

She took one breath.

One moment.

One second to steel herself for what she had been waiting for.

And then she picked up the phone.

“Hello?” Aria asked.

“Mrs. De Rose, this is Warden Kyle Stanford from Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility. We have some … uh, well … are you sitting, Mrs.?”

Aria blinked at the clock on the wall, and watched the secondhand tick down as an entire thirty seconds passed before she answered the man. “I don’t need to sit.”

“I think perhaps you should, Ma’am.”

“I think you should tell me what happened to my father.”

It took the man a beat in time.

And then two.

“How do you know it’s about your father?”

“He’s the only person in that facility you would call me about,” Aria said dryly.

“Ah, yes. Sorry. It’s been a crazy couple of hours here.”

Aria glanced over her shoulder, and listened for the guests at her table. None of them had any idea that everything was about to change in their lives again. Another uproar was coming their way fast. Another upset to put them all off balance.

All because of her.

Because she manipulated.

Because she needed to.

Aria brought herself back to the conversation with a quiet, “Treat it like a Band-Aid—rip it off fast, please.”

The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat, and said, “All right. Your father was having his usual yard time this evening after his dinner, and was shot through the back of his head by a long-range sniper shot. From what we can tell, anyway. Attempts were made to revive him, but …”

The man trailed off.

Aria nodded to herself.

“They were unsuccessful,” she murmured.