My phone buzzes against the table, Danny’s name flashing on the screen. Thank fuckingChrist.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, already pushing back my chair. “I need to take this.”
I don’t wait for permission before striding out of the conference room and into the hotel’s ornate hallway. The cloying smell of roses makes me sneeze. The door closes behind me, muffling Cristina’s continued enthusiastic planning.
“What?” I answer, my voice harsher than necessary.
“Jesus, you sound cheerful,” Danny replies dryly. “How’s wedding planning going?”
I scowl, even though Danny can’t see me. “Like being slowly skinned alive,” I reply as I walk down the hallway. “What do you want?”
A pause. “When are you going to let her call Katie?”
I stop walking, my free hand curling into a fist against my thigh. “Not this again.”
“Yeah, this again.” Danny’s voice carries an edge I don’t appreciate. “It’s been nearly three weeks, boss. Three weeks of complete isolation from everyone and everything she knew. One phone call—supervised, monitored, whatever protocols you want—just let her tell her friend she’s alive.”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?” The profanity is rare from Danny, which means he’s been building up to this conversation. “What possible threat does Katie Carmichael pose to your plan? She’s a veterinarian who works at an animal hospital and drives a ten-year-old car. You really think she’s going to mount some kind of rescue operation?”
“It’s not about the threat,” I snap, resuming my pacing down the hallway, my nose wrinkling at the flowers. Fuck, how many are there in this goddamn hall? “It’s about control. Every connection to her old life makes her harder to?—”
“Harder to break?” Danny finishes when I don’t. “Is that what we’re still doing? Destroying an innocent woman for crimes she didn’t commit?”
“Watch your tone.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me too? Add me to the list of people who’ve disappointed you?” His voice drops, becomes quieter but more intense. “I’ve followed you into hell, Luca. I’ve done things for you that keep me up at night. But this? This feels different. This feelswrong.”
The words make their mark because they echo my own growing doubts, the ones I’ve been trying to drown in scotch and justify with memories of Marco’s broken body.
“She’s not her father,” Danny continues into my silence. “She turned down two million dollars and freedom to avoid betraying you. She treats injured animals and household staff with more kindness than most people in our world show their own families. And you’re destroying her to punish a man who isn’t even here to watch.”
“Antonio will know,” I say through gritted teeth. “When I’m done with her, when I finally let him see what his choices have cost his daughter, he’ll understand exactly what he took from me.”
“And what about what you’re currently taking from her?” Danny challenges. “Her freedom, her career, her life, hersanity? Does that balance the scales for Marco? Is that what he would have wanted?”
An inhuman noise passes my lips. “Don’t you fuckingdaretell me what Marco would have wanted,” I nearly snarl, feeling my face heat up. “You?—”
My voice breaks, the memory of Marco’s lifeless eyes too vivid even after three years. The way his body was still warm when I found him, like maybe if I’d just been faster, smarter, better?—
“I know,” Danny says quietly. “I know it destroyed you. I know you need someone to pay for it. But Luca, one phone call to Katie won’t hurt your plan. It might actually help it. A completely broken woman can’t play the role of devoted fiancée for Viktor Torrino. She needs something to hold onto, some small piece of humanity, or she’s going to shatter completely.”
The observation is uncomfortably accurate. I’ve seen the cracks forming—the way Giuliana’s hands shake sometimes, the distant look in her eyes, the careful way she moves through the estate like she’s afraid of taking up too much space.
Like my mother used to move in those final months.
“I’ll consider it,” I lie, because the truth—that maintaining her isolation is as much about punishing myself as it is about punishing her father—is too complicated to explain even to Danny.
“Don’t consider it too long,” he warns. “You want her functional for this wedding? Then give her something to hold onto besides despair.”
He ends the call before I can respond, leaving me alone in the hallway with my thoughts and the uncomfortable weight of guilt I’m not supposed to feel.
Fuck.
I should go back to the conference room. Cristina is probably waiting with more fabric swatches and enthusiastic descriptions of imported flowers. But the thought of sitting there, watching Giuliana pretend to care about centerpieces while slowly dying inside, makes my stomach turn.
When I finally force myself back inside, the scene has shifted. Cristina is showing Giuliana something on her tablet. Photos of cakes, based on the brief glimpse I catch before she notices my return.
