Air felt thin. The table too wide. The ceiling too low.
“I need to speak to Vincent,” I said suddenly, the request rushing out like survival. “Alone.”
Nikolai’s expression didn’t change. Damius watched me as if I’d amused him.
Vincent’s attention returned with unhurried contempt. One finger tapped his ring once against the table, metal clicking softly.
The sound said everything.
No.
Then his eyes met mine, and the message sharpened.
Nothing you say matters.
“I’m asking you,” I said, and I hated the way my voice trembled. “Please.”
Vincent’s gaze held for a moment, then slid past me again, dismissing the entire request like it wasn’t worth breath.
Damius spoke instead, eyes on my father. “Proceed.”
The meeting moved on like I’d never spoken.
Nikolai continued. “Madeline will have a sit down with a Crow Codex handler following this meeting. Only she is permitted to attend.”
My uncle’s knuckles were white around the edge of the table. Uncle Cole looked like he wanted to lunge across it.
My father stayed standing, like sitting would mean surrender. “Let her speak. If she’s being taken, at least let her speak.”
Damius regarded him for a long moment, then offered the smallest nod, like granting a child one final wish.
“Talk,” Vincent’s eyes returned to me again.
The permission felt like a slap. He didn’t mean talk. He meant perform. Waste your breath so you understand it changes nothing.
“I—” My voice caught. I forced it steady. “Reconsider.”
It sounded pathetic the moment it landed.
Vincent’s face stayed still. “No.”
My heart gave a sharp, painful kick. “You don’t have to do this.”
His gaze sharpened with mild irritation, as if the suggestion of him having a choice offended him.
“This has nothing to do with you,”
The sentence stole what little air I had left.
A bitter laugh followed. I couldn’t help it. “How could it not? It’s my life.”
Vincent finally looked directly at me, full attention now. Finally. He looked at me.
“This is optics. Villain stays ours. Marcellus doesn’t step into our city through a marriage contract and call it diplomacy.”
The words came clean, rehearsed, ruthless.
Aurelio’s crest flashed in my mind—Adriatic gold, sovereign arrogance, a dynasty that loved performance because performance kept their myth alive.
