Exactly what I tried to tell him before. Maybe he understands now, as we look at each other from across the table.
Paul Morelli’s update is a little more detailed. The Morellis don’t have a set specialism, although their involvement in the art world is extensive. He glances up at Luciano when he pauses, and to my surprise, Luc steps forward, clearing his throat.
Everyone shifts as he continues his father’s update, Paul watching him closely. As he steps back, my father lifts his hand.
“Are we to expect a succession soon?” he asks directly, and Paul tilts his shoulders with a sly smile.
“I’m not dead yet.” A few titters around the table. “But I prefer to be prepared.”
My father assesses Luciano with more focus, and his eyes narrow as he taps his hand on the wood in front of us. Luc keeps his gaze straight ahead. “Interesting.”
My father considers him for a few more movements, and then his eyes move. “Fusco. Still alive over there?”
Giovanni jerks, and I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, at the cold cruelty in my father’s voice.
Gio glances down at his father, his jaw tightening. Carlo Fusco drags his eyes up, slowly. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again.
His son steps forward, his mouth set in a hard line. “I have the update.”
“You haven’t been given permission to speak, boy.” My father’s voice sounds like a whip, cutting through the quiet. “Until you are, I suggest you close your mouth.”
He leans back, perfectly at ease. His chair squeaks. “We all know what happens to those who can’t follow orders.”
Gio’s whole body locks up. His fists clench.
Don’t, I send him silently.Don’t do it.
But he’s not looking at me. No, his eyes are locked onto my father. “Yes,” he spits. “Their daughters end up raped and butchered, their body pieces scattered across ourfuckinglawn.”
“Enough.”
The word doesn’t come from my father. No, that’smyfucking mouth opening, everyone turning to me with mixed expressions. Luciano wipes away his horrified look, but Dante isn’t so quick.
“Cat,” he hisses.
My father, though, his body stills. Dante shuts up, fast, but my father still glances between us before he turns to me. “Caterina. Speak.”
The warning, the cold radiating from my name, is enough to tell me that I am in theshit. Even Gio turns his eyes to me. Quickly, I wave my hand, adopting an expression just as icy as my father’s voice.
“Clearly, Fusco is incapacitated.” My voice is steady, expressionless. “I, for one, have commitments this evening that cannot wait. Let the heir speak, or we’ll all be here until midnight waiting around.”
I can barely breathe as my father watches me closely. Finally, he nods slowly, turning to Gio. “Consider this your one and only reprieve, Fusco. Interesting that it came from my daughter, when you have placedil bacio della morteupon her head.”
I wonder who told him. It certainly wasn’t me, since he’s not answering my calls. To his credit, Giovanni doesn’t flinch, staring down my father as he delivers the Fusco report in clipped tones. It explains why he’s been absent most of the time from our joint tutoring sessions. Picking up the workload. Taking on the mantle sooner than he should have to.
The circles under his eyes are darker than mine.
When my father eventually dismisses us, Gio is the first to leave, taking his father’s arm and almost lifting him from his seat. It’s painful to watch, and I have to look away.
It’s when my eyes fall to the floor that I feel it.
Fingers trail up the inside of my leg, brushing against my inner thigh. Spreading out.
Moving higher in small circles. Harder. More demanding.
Gripping.
My back snaps ramrod straight, black spots dancing in front of my vision.
