"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" He leans back in his chair, studying me with those sharp eyes that see everything. "Tell me about Liana Costa. What does she want from life? What are her dreams? What makes her angry? What scares her?"
I have no idea. No idea at all.
"You can't answer," he observes. "Can you?"
"We were only together for—"
"You had enough time to ask basic questions." He cuts me off. "Did you ever actually ask her what she wanted? What mattered to her?"
"She wanted—" I stop, searching my memory. "I don't know."
"Exactly." He takes a measured drink. "Did you care to know?"
The question stings more than it should. "Of course I cared about her."
"Did you though?" He sets down his glass. "Or did you just assume she wanted what every mafia bride wants? A powerful husband. A big wedding. Children. The life her mother has."
I don't answer, because the silence is answer enough.
Because he's right. About everything.
I assumed. About who she was, what she wanted, what she needed from me.
"What if Liana doesn’t want the engagement to be over?" The words come out before I can stop them.
His eyebrow raises slightly. "Now you're asking the right question. Unfortunately for you, it's too late."
"I can fix this—"
"Can you?" He stands and walks to the window, looking out at the darkness. "Santino, I failed you."
"What?" The statement catches me off guard.
"I failed you. As a father. As a Don." He turns to face me, and there's regret in his expression. "I never taught you the most important lesson."
I wait, not sure where this is going.
"The role of a Don," he says slowly, "is not about power. It's not about territory or money or respect. Those things matter, yes. But they're not the priority. They're not what makes you worthy of the title."
"Then what is?"
"Family." His voice is firm, unshakeable. "A Don's first priority—his only priority that truly matters in the end—is to protect his family. Always. Above everything else." He walks back to his desk. "You protect your wife first. Before anyone. Before everything. Then your children. Your daughters and sons. Your grandchildren if you're lucky enough to live that long." He looks at me directly. "That's the job. That's what makes a man worthy of being called a Don. Not the title. Not the power. The protection."
The words sink in slowly, heavy and undeniable.
"And I failed," I say quietly, the admission painful.
"You failed the most important test a man in this life can face." His voice isn't angry, just profoundly sad. "You failed to protect Liana when she needed you most."
"I know that now."
"Do you?" He sits back down, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. "Because Dominic Costa spent twenty-eight years teaching his daughter this business. Making sure she could protect herself if something happened to him. Making sure she could survive in this life no matter what."
I stare at him, processing this information.
"You didn't know that about her," he observes. "Did you?"
