"You sold me."
"I saved you! Without this, you’re dead in six months. A bullet in the back of the head from a Russian you never saw coming. Is that what you want? Is that what you want for Rory?"
The name stops me. Rory.
My father sees the hesitation. He strikes.
"Rory is soft, Killian. He’s an artist, not a soldier. If we go down, he goes down first. They will tear him apart. You know they will."
I grip the back of the chair so hard the wood splinters under my fingers. "So I’m the payment."
"You’re the Underboss. This is your duty."
"Who?" I ask. My voice sounds hollow. "Which one? Rocco?"
"No. Rocco is the dog. You don't marry the dog." My father looks at me, and for a second, I see a flicker of something that looks like apology in his eyes. But he suffocates it. "Alessandro."
Alessandro. The Prince. The surgeon. The man who walks through the city in bespoke suits, looking at the world like it’s a specimen on a slide.
"He’s a Falcone," I spit. "He’ll kill me in my sleep."
"He won't. The Vow is binding. If he hurts you, the truce breaks and his family dies. If you hurt him, we die. It’s mutually assured destruction. It’s the only thing that works."
I feel sick. Physically sick. I’ve taken beatings that left me unable to walk. I’ve been shot. I’ve stabbed men and watched the light go out of their eyes. But this? This is a violation I don't have a defense for.
"When?" I ask.
"Friday. A private ceremony. Neutral ground."
"And then?"
"And then you live with him. You work with him. You present a united front to the city and to Volkov."
I look at the man across the desk. I look at the lines in his face, the trembling hands, the whiskey bottle that is his only real friend. I realize, with a sudden, clarity, that I don't hate him. I pity him. He’s a king standing on a crumbling castle, throwing his children into the moat to keep the water from rising.
But I am not a child. I am the Reaper.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you walk out that door," he says quietly. "And you take Rory with you. And you never come back. You’re out of the family. No protection. No money. No name. Just you and your brother against the Russians and the Falcones."
It’s a checkmate. He knows it. I know it. He knows I can survive on the street. He knows I can fight. But he knows I can't protect Rory without the army behind me. Rory needs the walls. Rory needs the money.
I slowly release my grip on the chair. My hand is throbbing. I look at the split knuckle, the blood drying dark and crusty on my skin.
"Friday," I say.
"Friday."
I turn around. I don't look at him. I can't look at him. If I look at him, I might do something that can't be undone.
"Killian," he calls out as I reach the door.
I stop, my hand on the brass knob.
"It’s just a marriage," he says. "It doesn't have to be love. It just has to be a cage."
"Careful, Da," I say, and my voice is so cold it surprises even me. "You’re locking a wolf in with a snake. Don't be surprised when you wake up and find out one of them ate the other."
