The question hangs between us. Simple. Direct. The kind of question I've deflected a thousand times from a thousand people.
I sigh.
The sound surprises me. It's not a sound I make. I don't sigh. I don't show exhaustion or uncertainty or whatever the fuck this feeling is that's been clawing at my chest for days.
But with her, sitting in the dark of my car, the weight of the last week presses down on my shoulders…
"My father is dying."
I stare straight ahead, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. I don't look at her. Can't look at her.
"The doctors say he has days. Maybe less."
Silence.
I wait for the empty condolences.I'm so sorry. That must be hard. Is there anything I can do?The meaningless words people offer when they don't know what else to say.
Instead, Vittoria shifts closer. Not touching me. Just... closer.
"Is that why you canceled our plans last week?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me because...?"
I finally turn to look at her. She's not pitying me. There's no soft sympathy in her expression, no awkward discomfort. She's just watching me. Waiting.
"Because I don't talk about this." My jaw tightens. "I don't talk aboutanything. Not with my siblings, not with my men, not with anyone."
"But you're talking to me."
It's not a question. It's an observation. And she's right.
I don't understand it myself. Aleksander calls every few hours to check on me, and I give him nothing but business updates. My father lies dying in a bed twenty minutes from here, and I've spent more time in my office than at his side.
But this woman asks me one question, and the words start spilling out like blood from an open wound.
"He's been sick for months," I continue, my voice low. "Cancer. We knew it was terminal. I've had time to prepare." I pause. "I thought I was prepared."
"You're not."
"No." The admission costs me something. I feel it in my chest, a crack in the armor I've worn so long it feels like skin. "He's a bastard. Cruel. He turned me into a weapon before I was old enough to understand what that meant." I exhale slowly. "And I'm not ready for him to die."
Vittoria is quiet for a long moment. The car turns onto Lake Shore Drive, the city lights reflecting off the dark water.
"My father died when I was thirteen."
Her voice is soft. Not fragile but quiet in a way I haven't heard from her before.
"One morning he was teaching me how to pick locks, and by that evening he was gone." She looks out the window. "I wasn't ready either. I don't think you ever are."
I reach across the space between us. My hand finds hers in the darkness.
She doesn't pull away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vittoria
