"He's in a mood," she says quietly. "He's been asking about your classes, about why you're not focusing on the MBA program. One of your professors called and told him that an assignment was late, I guess."
"Let him ask."
"Romeo—"
"I can handle him, Giulia."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. We walk together to the dining room, where my father is already seated at the head of the table. He's in his fifties now, but he's still imposing—tall and broad-shouldered, with iron-gray hair and eyes like chips of ice. He looks up when we enter, and I see the assessment in his gaze.
"Romeo. You're late."
"I'm exactly on time,” I reply coolly.
"On time is late in my house."
I don't respond. I take my seat across from Giulia, and I wait.
Dinner is served—osso buco, risotto, and a salad with bitter greens. My father's cook has been with the family for thirty years, and she knows exactly how he likes everything prepared. We eat in silence for several minutes. Then my father sets down his fork.
"I spoke with Dean Blackwood yesterday," he says. "He tells me you've been neglecting your MBA coursework."
"I'm maintaining my grades."
"Maintaining is not excelling. You're taking—what is it—archaeology courses? Ancient history?" He says the words like they're distasteful. "Useless courses that have nothing to do with your degree or your future."
"They're electives. I'm allowed to take electives. In fact, those are required."
"You're allowed to do many things, Romeo. That doesn't make them wise." He picks up his wine glass and swirls it. "You're supposed to be preparing to take over the business. To manage our investments, our holdings. To be a leader. Instead, you're wasting time on ancient pottery. Yes, you need to pick electives, but you could choose more useful ones. And your schedule is overloaded this semester. They’re meant to be spread out, not taken all at once."
I feel Giulia tense beside me. She knows what's coming.
"I'm exactly where I need to be.” My voice is cold. Controlled. The voice I use when I'm making it clear that I won't be moved.
My father's eyes narrow. "Explain."
"The business requires more than just financial smarts. It requires understanding people—motivation, desire, weakness. Understanding how to read situations, how to adapt, and think strategically." I meet his gaze steadily. "My archaeology courses are teaching me those things. They're teaching me how to analyze evidence and construct arguments, how to see patterns."
My father snorts. "They're teaching you about dead civilizations."
"They're teaching me about human nature. About power structures and religious authority, and the ways people justify their actions. About how societies rise and fall, how leaders maintain control, and how systems collapse." I pause. "All of which is directly relevant to our business."
I can’t help but think, in this entirely appropriate moment, that Savannah would be proud of my argument, if not the dishonesty behind it.
It's not entirely a lie. Those skills do help with business, I believe that. But that's not why I'm taking the courses. I would study anything, become anyone, if it meant being close to her.
My father is watching me with those cold eyes, and I know he doesn't believe me. He knows there's something else, some other motivation. But he can't prove it. And I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
“I don’t believe that’s all there is to this,” he says finally. “But whatever you’re doing, I need you focused. We can't afford distractions."
“I am focused,” I promise him. “I’ve never been more so.”
Just not on the family. Not on what you want me to be.
It’s the only act of defiance I’ve ever engaged in, in my entire life. There’s a thrill to it that I hadn’t expected.
The tension at the table is thick enough to cut. Giulia is looking between us, her expression worried. She knows I'm lying. She knows there's something I'm not saying. But she doesn't call me out. She just reaches under the table and squeezes my hand briefly—a gesture of support and solidarity. It means a lot to me.
My father returns to his meal, and the rest of dinner passes in strained silence. When it's finally over, I make my excuses and leave as quickly as possible. Giulia follows me out to my car.
