“Until the alliance with Torrino is secured.” I move toward the door, already anticipating tonight’s dinner conversation. “Antonio gets to spend these weeks knowing his daughter suffers because of him. And when the time comes for the final act, he’ll watch her die first. That’s when the lesson becomes complete.”
“That’s cold, even for you.”
“That’s justice,” I remark. “Antonio Conti will lose everything he values before I end him. That’s what he deserves for what he took from me.”
At precisely seven o’clock, I enter the dining room where Giuliana already waits, wearing another dress I selected.
It’s emerald silk that brings out the warmth in her brown eyes.
The bruising along her left cheekbone has faded to a yellowish shadow, barely visible under whatever makeup Maria helped her apply.
But I notice the careful way she holds herself, the slight hesitation before she takes a full breath.
Dimitri’s enthusiasm definitely cracked at least one rib.
Good. Pain is an excellent teacher.
“Luca,” she says, not standing. A small act of defiance that amuses rather than angers me.
“Giuliana.” I settle into my chair at the head of the table as staff members appear to pour wine and serve the first course. Tonight it’s seared scallops with some reduction. The chef assured me it was exceptional. “You look lovely this evening.”
“How’s my father?”
Direct, as always. No small talk, no playing the game. I appreciate the efficiency even as I plan to use it against her.
“He’s being cared for,” is my response.
“That’s not an answer.” Her fingers tighten around her wine glass, and I note the white of her knuckles against the crystal. “I need to know if he’s okay. It’s been a week.”
“He’s alive.”
She leans forward. “Is he hurt? Is he being fed? Does he know I’m here?”
I neatly cut my scallop in half, letting the silence stretch between us like a wire pulled taut. “He knows you’re safe. That’s all he needs to know for now.”
Her face pinkens. “I want to see him,” she enunciates slowly.
“I’m aware,” I respond, mocking her cadence.
“Then let me. Please.” The word costs her something. I can see it in the tension of her jaw, the way her throat works around the syllables. Giuliana Conti doesn’t beg easily, which makes it all the more satisfying when she does.
“No.”
She sets down her wine glass carefully, too carefully, like she’s afraid she might shatter it otherwise. “What do I have to do to earn that privilege?”
“Stop looking for escape routes would be a start.” I meet her gaze across the table, watching her eyes widen slightly as she realizes I’ve been monitoring her activities. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you testing the windows? Timing the guard rotations? Mapping which doors are locked?”
Color rises in her cheeks—embarrassment or anger, possibly both. “I was just?—”
“Planning.” I lean back in my chair, swirling wine in my glass. “You were planning, which suggests you haven’t fully accepted your situation yet.”
Red splotches appear on her face. “My situation is that I’m a prisoner.”
“Your situation is that you’re my fiancée. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She gestures around the opulent dining room with barely controlled fury. “Because from where I’m sitting, the gilded cage is still a cage.”
I allow myself a small smile. “At least you recognize it’s gilded. Some women would be grateful for the luxury.”
