I straighten my jacket, roll my shoulders back. Force my breathing to even out. Count backwards from twenty in Italian like I used to do before depositions when I still thought I'd follow my father into politics.
By fifteen, my body's starting to cooperate.
By ten, I can almost think straight again.
By five, the memories have faded enough that I can walk without broadcasting what I was just thinking about.
I reach my father's door, knock twice.
"Enter."
Here we go.
My father's office smells like cigar smoke and old money. The kind of smell that's supposed to make you feel important, like you've arrived at the top of some invisible ladder everyone's been climbing their whole lives.
It just makes me want to leave. Or puke. Or puke while leaving.
"Sit." My father doesn't look up from whatever document he's pretending to read. His desk is massive—all dark wood and brassfixtures, positioned so the light from the window hits whoever sits across from him right in the eyes.
Control. Always control with him.
I sit anyway, because refusing would drag this out longer.
And all I want to do is get this over with and get back to Bianca.
He sets down the paper with deliberate slowness, folds his hands, and finally looks at me. His eyes are the same blue as mine, but colder. Flatter. Like something died in him years ago.
"We need to discuss your... situation."
"My situation." I lean back, one ankle crossed over my knee. Relaxed. Bored, even. "You mean my girlfriend?"
"I mean that schoolteacher you've been parading around." He picks up a crystal tumbler, swirls the amber liquid inside. Scotch. Expensive. He drinks it like water. "Bianca Mancini. Queens. Second-grade teacher. No family connections. No money. No influence."
"She has me."
"That's the problem." He takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "You're a Vitale, Dante. Our name used to mean something before my... difficulties. We're rebuilding. Reclaiming ourposition. And you're wasting it on a woman who brings nothing to the table."
The way he saysdifficulties—like his corruption scandal that destroyed our family's reputation was just a minor inconvenience. Like Mom didn't drink herself to death trying to cope with the shame.
I keep my face blank. "She brings herself."
"Herself." He laughs, short and sharp. "What does that get you? What doors does that open? What alliances does that create?"
"I don't need more alliances."
"Everyone needs more alliances. Especially now." He sets down his glass, leans forward. "The Bellandis control shipping from here to Miami. Their political connections run deeper than ours ever did. Caterina is educated, sophisticated, understands our world. She's the perfect match."
"For someone else."
"For you." His voice hardens. "She's the only worthy bride for a man in your position. A woman who can stand beside you, not behind you looking lost."
My jaw locks. "Bianca isn't lost."
"No? She looked terrified at the party. Out of place. Like a child playing dress-up in her mother's closet." He picks up his glass again, studies the light through it. "People noticed, Dante. They're already talking. Wondering why you'd choose her over Caterina."
"Maybe I just want her."
"Want?" He snorts. "You're an adult. Want is for teenagers. You should be thinking about legacy. About building something that lasts beyond a few months of decent sex."
