Giuliana scoffs. “Some women aren’t here because their fathers made mistakes that got innocent people killed.” She pauses, and I see her gathering courage for the next question. “Last week, you mentioned Viktor Torrino. You said I needed to play the devoted fiancée for a territorial alliance.”
I acknowledge my head. “I did.”
“Why does a territorial alliance require a wife? Why not just negotiate like normal businessmen?”
The question reveals more intelligence than I expected from someone in her position.
Most people, terrified and desperate, wouldn’t think to question the underlying power dynamics.
But Giuliana’s mind is still looking for leverage even when she has none.
“Viktor Torrino is old school,” I explain, deciding there’s no harm in her understanding the politics that will govern her life. “He values tradition and family connections. A marriage demonstrates stability, long-term commitment, the kind of alliance that can’t be easily dissolved.”
“So I’m a political prop,” she says flatly.
“You’re a symbol of my commitment to creating a legacy that lasts rather than just accumulating power.” She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze distant. “Viktor has been consolidating territory on the North Side while I control distribution channels. Together, we create a monopoly that’s essentially untouchable by law enforcement or rival families.”
“And when the alliance is secure?” Her gaze is sharp now and on me, those expressive eyes narrowed.
There’s a pregnant pause. She’s asking about her future, about whether she has one beyond her political usefulness. Smart girl.
“Then you’ll have served your purpose,” I say, because cruelty is the point of this entire exercise.
I need her to understand that hope is a luxury she can’t afford. But she doesn’t need to know just yet my final plan for her.
I need her to think whatever she wants until I snuff out her pathetic life.
But something flickers in her expression.
Not fear, not despair, but something else.
Like she’s filing away this information for later use.
Like she’s already figured out what I’m not saying.
“Access to veterinary journals,” she says suddenly, changing tactics. “You won’t let me see my animals, you won’t let me contact anyone from my previous life. But veterinary journals are just educational material. There’s no security risk.”
She’s already asked this. “No.”
She slams a hand on the table in frustration. “Why not? What possible threat could medical journals pose?”
“The threat isn’t the journals themselves.” I set down my wine glass and lean forward. “The threat is you maintaining any connection to who you were before. Every skill you keep sharp, every piece of your old identity you preserve, makes you harder to control.”
“So you want to erase me completely.”
“I want you to understand something, Giuliana.” I’m getting tired of her piss poor attempts at negotiation. “Every skill you preserve, every connection you maintain to your old life, is a threat to the control I need. So no—no journals, no phone calls, no pieces of who you were. That version of you is a luxury neither of us can afford.”
She flinches as if I’ve struck her, and I feel smug.
This is what Antonio Conti’s betrayal has earned his daughter.
A slow, methodical dismantling of everything she was, everything she hoped to be.
“What about Katie?” she tries again, voice steady despite the devastation I can see in her eyes. “She must be worried sick. One phone call, supervised, just to tell her I’m alive?—”
Goddamn, she just doesn’t get it. “No.”
“She’ll go to the police,” Giuliana says desperately. “She will file a missing persons report.”
