I lift the orchid to my face, breathe in the faint, sweet scent. It’s not enough to hide the smoke and bleach that cling to Ciro. He’s always smelled like the inside of a bar, but there’s familiarity in it.
He hesitates, then steps behind the bench, putting both hands on the backrest, his knuckles white against the wood. “Are you hurt?”
It’s a test. If I say yes, he’ll report it. If I say no, he’ll still check for himself.
“I’m fine.” I tuck my wrist under the table, out of sight. “It’s nothing.”
He nods, but his eyes go to my jaw, linger there, then drop to my hands.
“Bam is… not like the others,” Ciro sighs. “If you want him removed, it can be arranged. He wasn’t raised in money. He was raised in blood and death.”
Panic rises in me. No. He cannot take away the one thong that’s mine. The one person that ismy choice.I set the orchid down, line it up perfectly with the edge of the table. “He’s not a threat.”
Ciro’s brow furrows. “He broke a man’s arm for you. That makes him a threat to you and to himself.”
I look up at him, and this time I don’t blink. “No one has ever done that for me before.”
“We’ve all killed for you, principessa.” Ciro’s mouth pulls sideways, a rare show of uncertainty. He wipes his brow again, then gestures to the plant. “You always pick the hardest things to care for.”
“So do you,” I say, and he almost smiles.
We stand in silence.
Ciro checks his watch. “Your father is still on the line. Will you come?”
I want to say no. I want to stay here until I forget what it feels like to be claimed, to have a part of my body that is not mine. But I stand, dust the dirt from my hands, and follow him.
At the door, I look back at the orchid. It sits straight and proud in its new pot, roots settled, already stretching toward the sun. It will survive. So will I.
Ciro holds the door open for me, and I let myself step past him. His hand grazes my elbow, gentle, but I stiffen anyway.
“Tell my father I’ll call him later,” I say.
He bows his head, then leads me back toward the real world.
The years have not softened him—his face is lined and sun-dark, his hair receding but still combed with military precision. He wears a suit no matter the weather, and the bulge at his waist is not a fashion statement.
We walk in silence until we hit a patch of sunlight slicing across the flagstones. He stops, lifts his chin, and studies me.
“I’ve never seen you let anyone that close,” Ciro says, his voice even, almost gentle.
“I didn’t let him,” I say. The lie is so transparent it hardly matters.
He makes a soft, skeptical noise, then pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at a fleck of dirt on my cheek. His hands are surprisingly soft, but the move is brisk, businesslike. “Your father is concerned,” he says. “He wants to know if you’re making friends.”
The implication is clear. I look away, suddenly unable to swallow past the lump in my throat. “Tell him I’m being civil.”
Ciro’s lips twitch. “Lia,” he says, a sigh escaping him. “I changed your diapers. I taught you to tie a knot, to shoot a gun. When you broke your arm on the playground, I carried you all the way to the hospital because you refused the ambulance.”
“That was years ago,” I say.
“You were ten.”
I try to find something sharp to say, but nothing comes.
He tucks the handkerchief away and we keep walking. “Your father assigned me to watch over you before you could walk,” he says. “But I have never seen you look at someone the way you look at that boy.”
I feel the heat at my collar again, but I don’t touch it. Instead, I stay quiet and try not to make eye contact.
