No greeting. No question mark suggesting I had a choice.
I showered, dressed, and armored myself with the same care I'd taken before the funeral.
Cream blouse, silk, conservative neckline. Tailored trousers in navy that my stylist in New York had assured me read as "professional but feminine"—whatever that meant. Pearl studs again, because I didn't own jewelry that wasn't appropriate for meetings with disapproving patriarchs.
Hair pulled back. Makeup subtle. The costume of a daughter who knew her place.
I arrived at his suite at precisely eight o'clock. Not a minute early, not a minute late. My father respected punctuality the way he respected useful things—noted, appreciated, never rewarded.
The door was propped open. I knocked once and entered.
His suite was twice the size of mine, the living area dominated by a dining table that could seat six but currently held only my father and his breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Coffee in a china cup that the hotel probably kept specifically for guests like him—the kind who would notice if the tableware wasn't up to standard.
He was reading something on his tablet, his reading glasses perched on his nose, his attention fixed on whatever quarterly reports or intelligence briefings or acquisition documents occupied his morning. He didn't look up when I entered.
"Sit. There's coffee."
I sat. Poured myself coffee I didn't want. Wrapped my hands around the cup because it gave them something to do.
"The wedding has been moved to Saturday."
The words landed like stones in still water. I felt the ripples before I processed the meaning.
"Saturday." I kept my voice level. Neutral. The voice of a woman receiving information, not protesting it. "That's three days."
"The Carusos want to present a united front quickly." He still hadn't looked up from his tablet, his finger swiping through pages, his attention clearly elsewhere. "Show the other families that the alliance is solid despite Vito's death. The sooner you're married, the sooner everyone stops wondering if the deal is still good."
The sooner I'm sold, I didn't say. The sooner the transaction is complete.
"I understand."
Three days. Seventy-two hours to prepare for a wedding I'd been dreading since I was twelve years old, to a man I'dexchanged exactly one sentence with, in a city where I knew no one and nothing and had no allies.
"What's he like?" The question escaped before I could stop it—the one thing I actually wanted to know, the information my father had never bothered to provide. "Dante. What should I expect?"
My father waved a dismissive hand, still not looking up. "He's a good man. Honorable. His father raised him right." A pause while he read something on the screen, his brow furrowing slightly at whatever it said. "You'll be safe with him."
Safe.
The word sat between us like a joke no one was laughing at.
"That's not really an answer," I said. Pushing, for once. Testing the edges of what I was allowed to ask. "Does he have expectations? For the marriage, for the—"
"Your expectation." He looked up at me finally, his eyes flat and assessing, the way they always were when he was calculating cost versus benefit. "Is to be a good wife."
I waited.
"Support him. Give him children when the time comes. Don't embarrass the family." He said it like a checklist, like he was reading off requirements for a job posting. Support. Children. Don't embarrass. "That's what you were raised to do. That's what you'll do."
I opened my mouth—to ask what, I wasn't sure. What if I'm not happy? What if he's cruel? What if this marriage destroys me the way Enzo almost did?
But my father had already returned to his tablet, his attention sliding off me like water off glass.
"Sofia will arrive this afternoon to help you prepare. I've arranged for a dress fitting at three." He swiped to a new page. "The dress came from Milan—Valentino, I'm told. Veryappropriate. You'll wear your grandmother's pearls for the ceremony."
"Papa—"
"That's all, Gemma." He said it without looking up, the dismissal as casual as if I'd been a servant asking if he needed anything else. "I have calls to make. Close the door on your way out."
