But people don't change. Not really.
They just get better at pretending.
I've watched it happen. Men who claim they've "found God" in prison, only to return to the streets the moment they're released. My own father, who claimed he'd be different after Mother's death then spent years turning me into his perfect weapon.
The world is full of liars who've convinced themselves their lies are transformation.
I prefer honesty.
I am what I am.
Monster.
The word doesn't bother me. It's accurate.
What bothers me is the idea that I should pretend to be something else. That I should wrap my nature in pretty language and psychological explanations. That I should claim I'm "working on myself" or "trying to be better" when we both know it's performance.
At least I'm honest about the darkness.
At least I don't make promises I can't keep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Vittoria
"Sit," Pietro says from behind his desk.
Nico stands by the window, arms crossed, face unreadable.
I drop into the leather chair across from Pietro. "What's going on?"
My brother shuffles some papers on his desk. A delay tactic. I've seen him do it a thousand times before delivering news he knows I won't like.
"Rogers called."
My spine stiffens. "And?"
"He wants dinner."
"No."
The word comes out flat. Final. I don't even need to think about it.
Pietro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Vittoria?—"
"I said no. I'm doing the three-month trial with Dmitri. That was the agreement."
"This isn't about replacing Baganov." Nico's voice cuts through from his spot by the window. He hasn't moved, but his dark eyes track my every reaction. "It's about optics."
I turn to face him. "Optics."
"The Rogers family represents legitimate business connections," Pietro explains. "Connections we need regardless of who you marry."
"So go have dinner with him yourself."
Pietro's jaw tightens. "You know that's not how this works."
I do know. That's the problem.
