"His friends are there," I argue. "His routine. He's already been uprooted enough."
Massimo exhales through his nose. "His classmates are the sons and daughters of politicians."
I lift a brow. "And?"
"That makes them targets."
I cross my arms. "What's so bad about a politician's daughter?" I ask, cool and deliberate.
He opens his mouth. Then closes it. We stare at each other for a beat, and I can almost see the gears turning as he realizes he's walked straight into it.
"I'm one," I add mildly.
His mouth quirks despite himself. "You're not exactly aselling pointfor your argument."
I snort. "I survived."
"That's not the standard I aim for," he counters.
"I know," I reply. "But Amauri needs more than safety. He needs continuity. People who knew him before all of this."
Massimo studies me for a long moment, weighing risk against something he's still learning how to value.
"Let me increase security," he negotiates. "Quietly. No uniforms. No disruption."
I consider it. Then nod. "That's… reasonable." I have no idea how the school will feel about that, but I imagine a large donation will keep any objections under closed lids.
He steps closer, lowers his voice. "We revisit this if the ground shifts."
"When," I correct gently.
A beat. Then he nods again. "When."
Massimo shifts, and the air between us changes.
"Have you decided," he asks evenly, "what to do with your father?"
I still. The question lands harder than I expected it to, like it's been waiting for me to stop moving long enough to catch up. I look past him, toward a painting on the wall.
"I…" My voice falters. I clear my throat. "I don't have that kind of power."
Massimo steps closer. Gently—always gentle with me—he takes my chin between his fingers and tilts my face up until I'm forced to meet his eyes.
"You have me," he reminds me quietly. "And through me, all the power in the world." There's no arrogance in it. Just fact. "Say it," he adds. "And it will be done."
My heart starts to race.
I swallow hard. "I don't want him to die."
The words surprise me with how much they hurt to say. Because the truth is—I do. And I don't. I want him punished. Exposed. Stripped of the authority he used to bend my life into something unrecognizable. I want him toknowwhat he took from me. From us.
But he's still Amauri's grandfather.
I'm already standing on the edge of one impossible conversation, already trying to figure out how to explain that the man Amauri calledDadis gone. Forever. How to frame that kind of absence without breaking something fragile inside my son. I can't add another body to that reckoning.
"I don't want his blood on Amauri," I say softly. "I don't want my son growing up with that kind of legacy hanging over him."
Massimo doesn't let go of my chin. His thumb brushes my jaw, grounding, steady. Emotions move over his face I can't read, but there is something like recognition and realization. This father role, this responsibility, is new for him too, and he has to figure out how to navigate it against his killer instincts.
