“I’m not hungry.”
“That would be unwise,” he says. He reaches for the carafe and pours water into the tumbler, then nudges the glass toward the edge of the table like he’s placing a gift on a threshold. “I will answer your questions. It will go better for both of us if you sit.”
“I asked who you are.”
Nothing moves in his face except his mouth. “A father,” he says. “Primarily.”
It’s not what I expected.
I realize my hands are in tight fists at my side. I’m still standing, but a step closer to the table has happened without permission. He notices; he notices everything. The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly.
“Eat,” he says.
“No,” I say, but I do take the seat across from him. “Answers.”
He studies me for a count of three, then nods, like a teacher who recognizes a particular brand of stubborn and decides to work around it instead of through.
“What I want,” he says, folding his hands on one knee, “is not you.”
I stare because the sentence makes no sense. “Then why am I here?”
“Because the someone who will come for you is—how shall we say—my concern.”
The breath leaves me in a quick puff of air. I don’t have to ask which someone.
“We’re not going to play with all the cards at once,” he says, still in that mild, conversational tone, “but I will give you enough so that we do not insult each other with pretense.”
He rests his fingertips against the edge of the linen napkin, then moves them away as if even stillness has to be tidy. “The Contis,” he says. “You know the name intimately.”
I don’t let my face change. I don’t think it listens. Heat moves under my skin in a rush that has nothing to do with blush and everything to do with fear.
“What do they have to do with—”
“Everything,” he says, with the smallest edge under the word. It is not anger. It is steel wrapped in velvet. “They killed my son.”
The sentence is plain. My world tilts. Revenge. This is for revenge. But why would they think any of the Contis would care about me?
“I don’t—” I start, then stop.
He only watches. “My only son,” he adds, as if the modifier matters to the math. It does to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I am. Because loss is loss, no matter whose it is.
His eyes acknowledge the words like a polite nod at a funeral and move on. “The Contis took him from me,” he says.
I have to believe they wouldn’t just…do something like that. I think of Giovanni, the kindness he’s shown me. Then again, what do I really know about them? They have the reputation they do for a reason.
And yet…
“Why?”
He inclines his head. “Because Gabe was a fool,” he says evenly. “I won’t deny it. Not born one. Made one. By proximity, by appetite, by men who taught him that you take what you want.”
My fingers press dents into the linen on my side of the table. “And you don’t believe the same?”
“To an extent but not absolutely.” A small breath, the barest lift of shoulders. “He went where he should not have gone. Attempted to take what was not his to take. Threatened something they consider… non-negotiable.” His gaze touches my face like a fingertip. “In return, he was corrected.”
“Corrected,” I repeat, because the word is too tidy for death.
