“I’m sorry,” he says again, and to his credit, his voice doesn’t break.
His father steps forward. “Don Conti, please. Allow me to?—”
I hold up a hand, stopping him. “Your family has served me loyally for years. That’s the only reason the boy is still breathing.”
Riccardo’s breath catches.
I let the words hang there for a moment before adding, “He’ll stay on. But he’s off her detail. Effective immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” the father says quickly. “Thank you.”
Riccardo nods, eyes shining with shame. “Understood, Don Conti.”
I study him for a beat longer, then turn back toward the window. The snow outside is still falling, soft and soundless. So deceptively calm.
“Dismissed,” I say.
The door closes behind them with a quiet click.
For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at my reflection in the glass.
I should feel better. I don’t.
Because punishing the boy doesn’t erase the image still seared in my mind. Elizabeth, flushed and laughing, and another man’s hands on her bare waist just below her gunshot wound. And no amount of control can change the truth gnawing in my chest. I’ve already crossed the line I swore I wouldn’t.
I purposely stay away from the house for the rest of the day. My emotions are uncontained, and I don’t want to say or do something I may regret.
Cesaro is the only one brave—or stupid—enough to speak to me. He knocks once and walks in around the time I should be going home. The man’s never been good at pretending he doesn’t know what’s going on.
“Are you avoiding her?” he asks.
I glance up from my desk. “Why would I be avoiding Miss Miller?”
His dark brow lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I was talking about Fran. She’s called at least ten times.” He pauses just long enough for it to sting. “But interesting that your first thought was Miss Miller.”
I lean back in my chair, folding my hands on my stomach, pretending the jab doesn’t land. “Fran knows I’m busy.”
Cesaro’s expression doesn’t change. “She also knows you never let her calls go unanswered.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “Maybe I’ve run out of patience for people who talk more than they listen.”
He snorts. “Then you must be very lonely these days.”
That earns him a glare, but he only shrugs, used to the risk by now.
“She didn’t know what she was doing,” he says quietly, tone shifting. “The girl, I mean. She’s young and grieving. You can’t expect her to act like she understands the world we live in.”
“She went behind my back,” I remind him. “She left my protection.”
“She left because she feels trapped,” he counters. “Because she’s mourning your daughter and has no idea where she fits anymore.”
I stand, too fast. The chair scrapes against the floor. “That doesn’t excuse it.”
“No,” he agrees evenly. “But it explains it.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. He’s known me too long to be afraid when he should be.
Finally, he adds, “She’s not the enemy, Lorenzo. Don’t punish her for making you feel something you don’t want to feel.”
