“You were right,” I sob again. “You warned me. You told me the Vicis couldn’t be trusted. I should have listened.”
“Shh.” His hand comes up, patting my back mechanically.
“He has to die,” I say, making sure he sees the conviction in my eyes through the tears. “Dad, he has to die.”
“Of course he has to die.” Dad’s voice is smooth and pleased. “That was always the plan, wasn’t it?”
I nod, wiping at my eyes. “I know. I thought maybe the arrangement could work, but you were right.”
Satisfaction crosses his face. He stands up and guides me to the couch, sitting beside me with his whisky glass still in hand.
“Poor Adora.” His voice is fatherly, like he’s never once raised his hand to me. “I warned you about the Vicis. They’re animals. All of them.”
The hypocrisy makes my stomach turn, but I nod, dabbing at my bleeding lip with the back of my hand.
“The Vicis have no honor. No restraint,” he continues, his tone so sincere it’s obscene. “This is exactly what I expected from him.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at him. This man who beat my mother. Who’s hit me more times than I can count. Sitting here acting like he’s a paragon of virtue.
But this is what I need. His guard down.
“I know when I want to do it.” I turn fierce. “The poison. I know exactly when.”
Dad’s eyes sharpen. “When?”
“During the wedding toast. I want to see him suffer in front of everyone for what he’s done to me. I want everyone important in Malus to watch him die choking on champagne.”
A slow smile spreads across my father’s face. It’s the most genuine expression I’ve seen from him in years.
“That’s my girl.” He pats my knee. “I knew you had it in you. You’re a Montoni, after all. We don’t forgive. We don’t forget.”
The praise makes my skin crawl, but I force myself to smile back through my tears.
“You’ll help me plan the wedding?” I ask. “Make sure everything is perfect?”
“Of course.” He drains his whisky glass, setting it on the side table. “We’ll start tomorrow. The wedding, the toast, every detail.”
I look at his empty glass, and an idea strikes me. An opportunity.
“Let me get you another drink.” I stand quickly, moving toward the bar. “We should celebrate our plan.”
If I can get him drinking, get him talking, maybe he’ll let something slip about Lira Dervishi.
But Dad waves me off, already standing. “Not tonight. I’m tired.” He stretches, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in months. “Maybe tomorrow, Adora.”
He walks past me toward the stairs, pausing to touch my uninjured cheek with unexpected gentleness.
“My daughter,” he says softly. “Finally on the right side where you belong.”
Then he’s gone, climbing the stairs to his bedroom.
I stand frozen by the whisky bottle, my hand hovering over it uselessly.
Bitter disappointment floods through me. If he’d just stayed for one more drink. If we’d just talked a little longer.
I’ll have to try again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. However long it takes to get him drunk enough, comfortable enough, arrogant enough to brag about murdering Lira Dervishi.
Somewhere across the city, Dashamir is waiting. And his patience won’t last forever.
