The front door of the restaurant opens.
Luca's head turns. Everyone's head turns.
Bert Castellano is not what I expected. He's shorter than his son. Heavier, with a broad chest and thick forearms visible below rolled sleeves. His hair is steel gray and his face is tanned and seamed and he walks through the restaurant the way Nikolai drives.
He's flanked by two men who are larger than Viktor, which I didn't think was possible.
Luca stands up. The chair scrapes. "Papa. I didn't—"
"Sit down."
Luca sits.
Bert reaches the table. He looks at Nikolai first. Something passes between them. Two old men who have known each other for decades, who built empires on parallel tracks, who made an agreement a long time ago and have kept it through wars and recessions and the ambitions of their children.
"Nikolai," Bert says.
"Bert. Thank you for coming."
"You said it was important."
"It is."
Bert pulls out the chair at the head of the table, between his son and Dom. He sits heavily. He doesn't order anything. He doesn't look at the menu. He looks at Luca.
"Tell me," he says.
Luca's mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Bert 's gaze moves to me. His eyes are dark, almost black. They take in the bump, the pallor, the fact that I'm sitting at this table beside Dom with Nikolai standing behind me. He reads the whole story in three seconds.
"You're the omega."
"Theo Holland."
"How far along?"
"Twenty weeks."
He nods. A single nod, heavy with something I can't name. Then he turns back to his son.
"Nine weeks?" he says.
Luca's jaw works.
"I called you." Bert's voice hasn't risen. It doesn't need to. "I called you and I asked you directly. I said, 'Luca, do you know anything about this?' And you said no."
"Papa—"
"You lied to me. You lied to me and you lied to Nikolai and you put a pregnant omega in a hole in the ground for two months and you nearly started a war between our families."
"It wasn't a war. It was leverage. I was trying to—"
"You were trying to prove you're smarter than everyone in this room and you have proven the opposite."
Bert plants both hands on the table. His palms are flat on the white cloth, thick fingers spread. He breathes in through his nose. The restaurant has gone quieter around us. The nearby tables haven't stopped eating but they've stopped talking.
"Nikolai." Bert doesn't look away from his son. "I owe you an apology. My son's actions were not sanctioned by me. They were not sanctioned by my family. The agreement between our families stands. It has stood for thirty years and it will stand for thirty more."
