Cold sweat breaks out on my lower back.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
Matteo’s silence tells me exactly how unconvincing that sounds.
After he leaves, I stare at the box on the coffee table.
Five days to extract a confession from a man who’s never admitted to anything in his life.
I have to make this work. There’s no other option.
At dinner that night,Dad sits at the head of the table, and I take the seat to his right. Close enough to pour wine. Close enough to monitor how much he’s drinking.
I hold up a bottle of his favorite Chianti, smiling like a nervous bride seeking her father’s approval. “Can I top you up?”
He nods absent-mindedly, distracted by his own thoughts, and I keep his glass full.
We eat in relative silence at first. Roasted chicken, potatoes, vegetables. Food I barely taste. I’m too focused on the wine level in the bottle. On the subtle loosening of his posture as the alcohol works through his system.
By the second glass, he’s starting to relax. By the third, he’s talking more freely.
“You’ll make a good wife,” he says, studying me. “Once the Vici is dealt with, you’ll be perfectly positioned to marry someone more suitable. Someone with actual power.”
I force a smile and pour more wine. “You’ve always been so good at planning ahead.”
“That’s what separates men like me from the rest.” He takes a long drink. “Vision. The ability to see ten moves ahead while everyone else is stuck in the present.”
“Is that how you’ve stayed on top for so long?” I ask carefully. “Seeing moves others don’t?”
He nods, warming to the topic. The wine is making him expansive. Boastful.
This is good. This is what I need.
“Will you ever marry again?” I ask, topping up his glass. “You must get lonely.”
“Marriage is a tool, Adora. I hope you understand that. Some women don’t.”
Hope flares in my chest. He’s going there. I’m going to get him talking.
“Some women think they have a choice,” he continues, his voice taking on that cruel edge I know so well. “They think they can say no to a man like me. They think their feelings matter more than alliance. More than power.”
My phone is in my pocket. I already pressed record on my voice notes app before we sat down.
“What happens to women like that?” I ask, trying to sound interested and not heart-poundingly desperate for him to keep talking.
He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. “They learn. One way or another, they learn their place.”
This is so close to what I need, but he’s not saying enough. Not admitting anything specific.
“The old families understand that,” I say carefully, pouring more wine into his glass. “The traditional families. They understand hierarchy. Order.”
“Some do.” His expression darkens. “Others think they’re above it. Think their bloodline makes them special. The Vicis were like that. Generation after generation of arrogance, but what were they? Animals. Filth.”
He takes a long drink, and I watch his face flush with anger and alcohol.
“Enzo Vici, he was the worst of them. And his son?” He laughs, the sound ugly. “Thinks he’s some kind of avenging angel when really he’s just a killer with delusions of honor.”
My jaw tightens. I force myself to stay quiet. To nod along.
