“If you see any weakness in the Board, any hint of disunity, you tell me. We are playing for high stakes, and I want every advantage.”
“I will,” I say, and mean it.
He hesitates, then drops his voice. “Be careful, Dahlia. There are more monsters at Westpoint than you know.”
I smile. “I’m not afraid of monsters.”
He hangs up.
Leone stands by the table, looking at me like he’s never seen me before.
I hand him a cone before making my own. I make two servings because even when I want to hurt him, I can’t unlearn kindness.
We eat in silence. I let every bite settle like a stone in my stomach.
When I’m finished, I look up and meet his gaze.
“I’m not your girl anymore,” I say.
He nods, but his eyes are full of tears.
I don’t say anything else.
I go to my room, shut the door, and lean against it, heart hammering.
I know he’s right.
But I also know this:
I’d rather be ruined on my own terms than protected on someone else’s.
I wake early, shower with the hottest water I can stand, and dress in the softest layers I own. I need to look perfect today—no trace of last night, no sign of the mess inside me. I line my eyes with black, comb my hair back, and select a simple sweater and skirt, understated but expensive.
In the kitchen, I assemble the makings of a real breakfast. I crack eggs with the heel of my hand, dice red pepper into squares, and slice bread so thin it curls on the edges. The rhythm calms me, or maybe it just keeps my mind from careening back to the wall, to the hand at my throat, to the way I begged for it and would do so again.
The phone buzzes at exactly 8:00, as if my father is standing in the next room, clocking the seconds. I wipe my hands, answer on speaker.
“Piccola,” he says affectionately.
“Buongiorno, Papa.”
“Your class today?”
I rattle off the schedule he already has: Business Ethics, then Political Theory, then lab. He corrects me on the professor’s name, which I pretend to be grateful for. He wants to hear about my success, so I tell him about my perfect quiz score, the professor’s compliment, the quiet respect I command. I don’t tell him about the whispers, or the bruises, or the way the Academy feels like a trap built for me.
Leone materializes behind me, a ghost in a black suit. His face is still puffy from last night, but he’s composed. I tilt my head just enough for him to see the phone, and he nods—he knows to keep his mouth shut.
He must have slept on the couch. Usually he stays with Ciro in their adjoining room, but he was rattled enough to need to be close to me, I guess.
“Are you eating?” my father asks, and I plate my eggs with.
“Yes,” I say, and take a bite as proof, not that he can see.
He grunts, satisfied. “I want you to know, Dahlia, that we are close to finalizing the deal. The Board is slippery, but their greed betrays them.”
“Of course, Papa.”
He lowers his voice. “Have you seen anything? Heard any names?”
