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“Mother—”
“Your friend Gareth will solve the problem sooner or later. He’s a clever boy with a lot of resources. But in the meantime, yourwifeis still married to an Italian Capo. Your captains are under control only because they have a different enemy to deal with, but what happens when the Italians sue for peace? What do you do then, Evander?”
“I refuse and kill them.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Mother stops walking and faces me. “I like Camille. I really, really do. But you can’t go on like this.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I can’t look at her right now. There’s a reason I avoid speaking with my mother as much as possible. She reminds me too much of the man I used to be, back before my life changed, back before I became the lord.
I was a different person then. Less angry, less violent. I did my part for the family, but the weight of everyone’s fortunes weren’t squarely on my shoulders. I could laugh more, I could think more.
Now, my days are consumed with violence and the responsibilities of leadership.
And with Camille.
Mother says, “You care about her.”
“She’s my wife. I care about her.”
“Evander,” she says, tone sharp. “When will you stop treating me like an idiot? I have survived in this family for longer than you’ve been alive, boy. You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing with her?”
I go very still. Did Lycus tell her? Did Camille? I knew my wife wasn’t the best liar in the world, but we discussed this. Keep the secret at all costs. Play the game, keep our heads down. Wait for the storm to pass, for the danger to dissipate.
How does my mother know?
“I have no clue what you’re talking about, Mother,” I say cautiously.
“You don’t wear the ring.” Mother slips her hand through my arm and leans against me. “Maybe the others haven’t noticed, but I did.”
I stiffen slightly. Not at her touch, but at how perceptive she can be. “I don’t like rings,” I say softly.
“Why? Because your father never wore one?”
I shake my head, unable to answer.
She sighs as we begin to walk again. “Your father loved you, Evander. He loved you more than you realize.”
“I looked up to him.” I can see my father in my memory still, a massive man, tall and broad, a Kazan through and through. He taught me everything: how to fight, how to tell jokes, how to cook, how to live. I loved that man. I still love that man. When he died, it was like losing a piece of me, a piece that not even revenge brought back.
“You probably didn’t know this, but your father didn’t wear a ring because he was allergic to gold.”
I laugh sharply. “Really? That can’t be true.”
“It’s true. I told him a million times to get a different metal, to get fool’s gold, anything he wanted, but he always had a million excuses. It never really bothered me, if I’m honest.”
“Huh.” I clear my throat. “I thought he just—didn’t like jewelry.”
“I’m sure that’s what he told you. Can you imagine, your father with a weakness? An allergy to something as simple as gold?” She smiles sadly, no doubt remembering the man she pledged her life to, gone for a decade now.
In our world, in our family, an allergy to gold would be like an allergy to breathing. Flashing wealth, wearing gold, it’s a part of the culture. I figured Father liked to buck trends and be his own person—but it was simpler than that.
Just an allergy.
“Dad never did like to lose,” I say with a smile.
Mom pats my arm. “But it isn’t only the ring that gives you away. It’s the way you look at her.”
“Now you’re making things up.”
