I glance at Leone. He shakes his head slightly, the barest warning.
“No,” I lie. “Nothing. Just the usual. Petty posturing.”
“Stay alert,” he says. “There are rumors of a rival family making moves. Do not let your guard down, not for a moment.”
I think of Bam, of the way his hands felt around my throat, the taste of him. I think: too late.
“Yes, Papa,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice never trembles.
“I love you, Piccola.”
“Love you, too.”
He hangs up.
I stare at my hands. The knuckles are white, tight around the fork. I unclench them one by one.
Leone sits at the table, facing me. He pours himself coffee, the movement slow and deliberate. He doesn’t like to eat breakfast, says it weighs him down.
“Is he sending someone else?” he asks.
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter.”
He looks at me, something soft and haunted in his eyes. “I can protect you from everything, Lia. But not from yourself.”
The words sting. I stand, gather my plate, and rinse them in the sink.
He tries again, voice low. “We can leave. Tonight. I’ll get the car. We’ll go wherever you want. You don’t have to—”
I laugh, brittle and hollow. “Run away from my problems? What would that prove?”
“That you’re smarter than this. Smarter than him.”
The silence is thick.
I dry my hands, turn, and face him square on.
“You don’t get to decide who I am, Leone. Not anymore.”
He nods, but I see the defeat in it. “If you want me to kill him,” he says, “just say the word.”
I almost smile. “You think he’s the problem?”
He stands. “You think he’s the solution?”
I walk to the window, look out on the campus below. Bam is nowhere in sight, but I know he’s out there, somewhere, waiting for me to make the next move.
“He’s just… the next bad idea,” I say. “That’s all.”
Leone watches me, eyes full of sorrow and pride and something that looks like love, but isn’t. He buttons his jacket, smooths the lapel.
“I’ll be outside,” he says. “If you need anything, just call.”
He leaves.
I stand at the window, watch the shadows shift as the sun rises. I touch my wrist, tracing the marks he left, along with the ones Bam gave me, and let the pain remind me of what’s real.
I am not my father’s daughter.
