He takes a step toward me. “He will destroy you.”
I meet his gaze. “Maybe I want to be destroyed.”
The words hang in the air between us, poisonous and true.
“I could have given you the world,Principessa.”
My phone rings, interrupting the moment. The ringtone is a custom job, coded in from home. Only one person in the world gets that song.
I grab the phone and hit speaker before the second ring.
“Papa,” I say, voice instantly sweet, trained for this moment since I could talk.
“Piccola,” my father says, the old nickname sliding out in his old smoker’s rasp. “How is the new school? Are the professors treating you with the respect you deserve?”
Leone’s posture changes, shoulders back, chin up, all business.
I smile into the phone, even though my father can’t see it before placing it on the counter. “Everything is good. The classes are fine, a bit easy, but I suppose the standards are lower here.”
He laughs, a quick bark. “Don’t let them soften you. The Board will try to undermine you—don’t give them the satisfaction.”
I open a cupboard, grab some ice cream cones before heading to the freezer to grab my favorite flavor: mint chocolate chip. My hands are steady now, all the rage bled out in the last round.
“Any trouble from the other students?” he asks.
I glance at Leone, daring him to say anything. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good girl,” Papa says. “Remember, we are making allies, not enemies. If anyone approaches you about business, you say nothing. Not until I tell you otherwise.”
“Of course.”
I hear him shuffling papers, the distant clink of a glass. “You sound tired. Are you sleeping?”
“Some nights,” I lie.
He’s silent for a beat, then: “I sent you a package. It should arrive by the end of the week. Use it as you see fit.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Leone is there?”
I look at him, watching the way his hands flex and relax at his sides.
“Yes,” I say. “He’s right here.”
“Put him on.”
I motion for Leone to talk. Leone wipes his palms on his pants before schooling his face.
“Boss,” he says, every inch the loyal dog.
I turn my back, scooping ice cream into the cones, listening as Leone gives his report in clipped, careful Italian. He keeps it brief, never mentions the fight, never mentions Bam. Only the basics: security, academics, the climate of the school. I respect him for that, at least.
When he’s done, he passes the phone back.
“Piccola, one last thing,” my father says.
“Yes, Papa?”
