My father’s mouth tightens. “Security for what?”
I tilt my head, letting my smile sharpen. “For me.”
My mother gestures to the door. “Come inside, I’m cold.” Some things never change. She’s still the most selfish person I’ve ever met. “You look . . .” She narrows her eyes, trying to find the word she wants to use. It’s usually an insult, so I help her with it.
“Tired?” I walk past her toward the doors. “That’s just my face now. It’s a trend.”
She rolls her eyes. She’s never found me funny. I guess almost losing everything and selling your daughter to a mafia man didn’t help her get a sense of humor.
Fine by me. I have no intention of ending this line of jokes. She deserves to know I’m miserable. She did sell me like cattle, after all.
Once inside the house, we move into the front sitting room. Nico stays by the doorway.
My father notices immediately. “Does he have to stand there?” he snaps, gesturing toward Nico.
Nico’s eyes slide to my father, expression calm in a way that makes my spine prickle.
I beat him to it. “Yes.”
My mother flinches. “Victoria—”
I lift a hand, cutting her off without raising my voice. “Let’s not pretend we get to make rules today.”
Silence drops hard.
My father’s jaw clenches like he’s chewing glass, and my mother’s hands flutter at her chest.
Then she tries again, softer. “What brings you here today?”
I look at her. Really look. Her makeup is done, but her eyes are swollen. Her lips are pale beneath the lipstick, and her hands shake when she reaches for the tea service.
Guilt?
Or sadness.
Most likely neither. Never can tell with this woman, but what I can tell is she isn’t happy, and I’m certain it has nothing to do with me.
“Is that your way of asking if I’m okay?” I settle into a chair without taking my coat off.
My mother doesn’t speak, so I answer my own question anyway. “I’m alive.”
My father’s laugh is harsh and bitter. “Cute, Victoria.”
I angle my head toward him. “I do what I can.”
His face goes red. “Stop with the attitude, young lady.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Aw, do you not like me reminding you of what you did? Treating me like an asset?”
My father goes still.
Nico shifts slightly in the doorway, the tiniest adjustment.
My mother sets a teacup down, and the porcelain clinks at the movement. “I will not have this in my house,” she whispers, as if Nico can’t hear.
“Then where?” I shoot back, letting my voice sharpen. “How do you want it, Mom? You want me to smile and say thank you? You want me to pretend this is fine because the alternative is admitting what you did?”
Her eyes harden. “We didn’t have a choice.”
