Dre texted an hour ago to fill me in on his success in the churches. He's already tracked down two potential Cells and warned me that rumors are flying that I got married. He didn't have to say it, but we both know that if Don Edoardo gets wind of this, there will be hell to pay.
Edoardo doesn’t scare me. The storm he drags behind him does. I don’t need the Don’s ego sniffing around my house while I’m building a flank. I’m buckling the overnight bag when the sturdy door opens without a knock.
"Morning, Figlio." My father's voice is warm. It always is. He wears it like a suit.
I don’t turn right away. I make him come closer. "You’re early."
"I’m late." He stops beside the bench, and his fingers skate over a designer logo. "Because I had to hear through the grapevine that my son got married."
I meet his eyes. "Then the grapevine should send you a bill."
He laughs, but there is no humor in it. "You couldn’t tell your father yourself? After everything we’ve done to keep our house clean?"
I stop the zipper in the middle of closing it. For a second, I consider telling him the truth. Then a ledger flashes behind my eyes—green on black, numbers like teeth.
GUSTAVE.CONTI → AURELIO.VALVERDE
AMT: 250,000 USD
NOTE: SERV/ROMA–"SCOUR"
REF: NICHOLAS/G–GW-11
If he knew Nico was alive and had paid Valverde to keep him breathing, why the silence? Why leave me to mourn a corpse that never hit the ground?
On a calculated exhale, I let the bag’s zipper close. "It was fast," I say. "Private."
Gustave’s brows climb. "Fast is for girls who don’t know what they’re buying." He leans in, and the familiar scent of his cologne, starch from his shirt, and clean power hits me.
"You know how Edoardo reacts to capos marrying outside. What were you thinking—especially now?" He looks genuinely sorrowful.
"Why do you care what he thinks?" I ask, mild as poison. "You told me once a Don’s opinion is weather. It changes."
His jaw ticks, a small telltale sign that he's not as composed as he wants to appear. "I care because I’ve kept us alive by playing both sides of the sword. I drink his wine while you drink that of the sons and young capos. Whichever way this city falls, a Conti lands on his feet. That’s what a father buys for his house: insurance."
"Insurance looks a lot like tribute on paper," the words are out before I can leash them.
His eyes sharpen. "What paper?"
I give him a smile I don’t feel and wave my hand. This isn't me. I don't make comments I don't mean. I don't talk with my temper. "Figure of speech."
He circles the room and comes close enough for me to see the years of worry and responsibility etched fine around his eyes. "You listen to me, Stephano. You are not like those young runts—DeLuna playing cowboy, Orsi sharpening knives, Sartori measuring himself against God. You're smarter. You’re supposed to sit at their table and bring me their tells, not join their little… rebellion."
"Too late," I say, because I’m done kneeling to men like my father who confuse rot with tradition.
He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. "One day, when you’re older, you’ll see the wisdom in having chips on both sides of the table," he says softly. "You don’t pick a winner; you make sure the dealer owes you either way."
"Dealer’s been stacking the deck," I say. "Maybe it’s time we flip the table."
"Careful." He taps the bag with a knuckle. "Who is she?"
"My wife."
"Don’t be cute."
"Never am."
He studies me, looking for the seam where the lie breathes. "Does Edoardo know?"
