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“To me,” I clarify.
She looks slightly less disturbed by the offer, but not much.
“What?” she asks, lips parting in shock.
My father echoes her sentiment. “You realize you are offering peace to our biggest rivals? Offering to join our families? It is unheard of.”
“Perhaps that is a good thing,” I say, not taking my eyes off Eve. “We all want peace, do we not?”
I don’t. I’ve never wanted peace. Even now, I feel lethal. My hands itch to clench and pummel someone or something. It has always been my outlet. The way I could express myself that still served my family’s purpose. Marriage is as far from killing as possible. And yet, I’ve offered it.
“There are other ways,” my father says.
I shake my head, openly disobeying him. “This is the only way. It is the best outcome for everyone.”
My father opens his mouth to argue, but before he can, Eve speaks. She backs away from the table. Her face is pale, making her lips look even more pink. “It is not the best outcome for me. Or for you either, I suspect. I will not make you happy and any man who thinks I am a chip to be bartered could never make me happy.”
“Are you refusing?” my father asks, sounding offended even though he’d been protesting the idea only moments before.
Eve nods. “I am. I will not marry you.”
Then, she turns and leaves. As I watch her go, her skirt perhaps even shorter in the back than in the front, I wonder whether she was right. Because from this point of view, it seems like she might be able to make me happy.
When she is gone, my father whirls to face me. “Please inform me when you overthrew me,” he says, his chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Because that is the only way it would be appropriate for you to interrupt me and offer any kind of business proposal without consulting me first.”
I still can’t believe I even said it. Had Eve accepted the offer, I’m not sure what I would have done. But I can’t let my father see my uncertainly. I can’t let him know that somehow, despite my attempts to minimize her effects, Eve managed to get under my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say shortly. “I thought you would agree with the idea.”
He grumbles under his breath, but I’m still too distracted to pay attention. One of my father’s men walks out of the kitchen and over to our table. He leans down to whisper in my father’s ear. My father nods, gives him a message, and then sends him back to the kitchen.
“The girl will be our waitress for the evening,” he says, pushing aside the plate of pasta Eve brought to him. It is still steaming. “We will stick to the original plan. We play with our food, and then we eat it. No leftovers, no crumbs. Do you understand?”
Usually, I would nod in agreement immediately, but I hesitate. Not long, but enough for my father to notice and turn to me, eyebrow raised.
“Isn’t marriage worse than murder in this case?” I ask. “Benedetto would hate to see his daughter married to his rival’s son. He would hate to see her pregnant with his enemies’ seed. Marrying Eve could be a punishment worse than murdering her. It would cause lasting, long-term grief.”
My father shakes his head. “Since when do you advocate for the nonviolent route, son? Perhaps you should stick to what you know and let me handle the finer details.”
When Eve comes back into the dining room, notepad in hand, she looks defeated. She is a fighter, but she is getting tired. I can see it in the downturn of her eyes and the sag of her shoulders. My father barks orders at her, insults her with every other breath, and throws pointed glances at me to join in, but I also feel weary.
“What is wrong with you?” my father asks when she leaves. “Where is your head?”
“Marrying Eve gives us control over Benedetto and the Furino family,” I continue, lobbying for the idea I still can’t believe was my own. “If he dares to challenge us again, we have his daughter in our hold. We can punish her, harm her, even kill her if we want. Killing her now will anger him and cause a war. Holding her hostage gives us time to formulate a better plan.”
“When are you going to let this go?” He smooths his gray-speckled hair down with one hand and straightens his tie. “The woman did not agree to the offer. She wants war, and it is war we will give them. Enough.”
The meal is tense and awkward, broken by moments of even more tension when Eve appears to deliver courses or refill our drinks. When she bends across the table to refill my glass, my father practically drools at the sight of her cleavage. He reaches out for his own glass, his hand brushing against the side of her chest. My hand moves inexplicably to the blade in my pocket. It is comforting and familiar in my hand, and holding it feels like grabbing onto the control I’ve been craving all evening.
Eve pulls out of his reach and begins to silently clear dishes. As she does, she gathers used cutlery in one hand and drops everything onto a stack of dirty plates. Except, I notice, one serrated knife. It is in her right hand, blade pointed forward, her hand curled around the handle in the same way my hand is gripping the switchblade in my pocket. The dinner knife isn’t enough to kill me, but it could do some damage, especially if she slashed it across the exposed skin of my face. Eve works her way around the table, shuffling dishes to the ever-growing stack, but the knife stays in her hand as she inches her way closer to me.
My heart is already racing from her nearness, adrenaline thrumming through my veins, and then she and the knife are right in front of me. Eve turns to grab a water glass on my side of the table, and I react the way I’ve been trained to. Like a dog hearing a dinner bell, I salivate. I flinch. The switchblade slips from the pocket of my jacket and Eve follows my movements. I can tell by the sudden slackness in her face that she sees it, and she thinks she knows what it means. She jumps back, taking the dirty dishes and the serrated knife with her, and practically runs to the relative safety of the kitchen.
My father looks down and sees the blade in my hand and smiles approvingly. “There you go, son. Stick to the plan. Torment her, kill her, and be done with her.”
I nod at him and drop the blade back into my jacket pocket.
I know this feeling well. The puffed-up pride of being the scariest, most dominant man in the room. The man who people cower in front of. And yet, it is tinged with something else. Something bitter.
