"Yeah, well for the record, I'm supposed to be getting shit-faced at a party in Rome, so there's that. Are you going to torture me for getting lost, or can I sit down? Because my feet are killing me."
I gesture to the chair. She drops into it like she's claiming territory and drapes one leg over the arm. As if she owns the fucking furniture in my house.
"Don't worry," she says, holding up her hands. "I'm not here to throw pillows. I needed to talk. Like a normal person. With someone who actually knows what the hell is going on. Because I don't. And it's driving me insane. I need more info so I know what I'm dealing with here. I'm not the kind of person to leave alone in a room with only my thoughts for company. It drives me a little crazy."
I study her. Her eyes are still wide, but there's a real desperation there now. Not the performative kind, the real kind.
"You're not entitled to answers," I say.
"Oh, I know. Believe me. I get that part. Loud and clear. But you brought me here, remember? You made this personal. You dragged me into your messed-up life. You're the criminal, notme. So now I want some personal clarity about the situation. It's only fair."
"What kind of clarity?" I ask, leaning forward, giving her just enough space to talk.
She sighs, glances away, staring at the wall. "Why the hell did I have to get caught up in this?"
"Because your mistake cost me operational silence. It cost me money. And more importantly, it cost me trust that I've spent years building."
"You think I planned that? You think I sat down and thought, 'Hmm, how can I mess with a dangerous crime family today? I know, a selfie!' That'll do the trick!"
"No," I say. "I don't think you planned it. But planning doesn't matter now. The result's what matters. And the result is you sitting here, a liability in my house."
“There’s that word ‘liability’ again.”
She meets my gaze. I see something quieter behind her expression. Something close to fear. Something close to understanding. She's beginning to grasp the real picture.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asks. "All the control. All the consequences. The cost of living like this?"
I don't answer right away. The question hangs in the air, heavy. It hits closer than she knows.
"You said feeling gets people killed," she continues, pushing. "Is that what happened to you? Did someone die because you felt something? Did someone pay the price for your emotions?"
Silence stretches between us.
She exhales, a shaky breath. "Never mind, you don't have to answer that. It was a stupid question. I shouldn't have asked. I seem to be doing a number of stupid things lately."
I stand and walk to the cabinet to refill my glass, even though I haven't finished the first one.
"You're not stupid," I say, without turning around. "You're reckless. You talk before you think. You act before you look. But you're not stupid and you're learning fast."
When I turn to glance at her, she looks surprised. Maybe even a little hurt.
"You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better," she mutters.
"It wasn't meant to. It's a fact. If you want to survive this, you'll need to start choosing your silences as carefully as you choose your words. Because silence can be more powerful than any rant you post online."
She stands, her chin held high. "And if I don't want to survive it? If I'm just tired of this whole messed-up reality of my life?"
This catches me off guard. It's a dangerous and unexpected question.
"What are you saying?" I ask.
She shrugs. "I'm not saying I want to die. I'm not that melodramatic. I'm just saying… I don't know what I'm going back to, if I even get out of here. I don't know what's real anymore. My whole life was a performance, and now the stage is gone."
"Then you'd better learn fast what is real if you want to survive."
"You know what your problem is?" she says. "You think control is the same thing as strength. But sometimes, it's only fear in a better suit. And you wear the best fucking suits, Rafe."
She leaves before I can respond.
