He studies me in silence long enough to make my skin crawl.
“You know,” he says at last, “I used to think marrying you to Lorenzo Conti would make you useful.”
My lips part in disbelief. “You dragged me out of bed for this?”
“For truth.”
I let out a short laugh. “Then perhaps we should invite a priest. No one in this room has any experience with that.”
His eyes narrow. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?”
For one dangerous second, I think he might strike me. Instead, he smiles. And I have always hated him more when he smiles.
“Do you know where your husband has been?” he asks.
Something inside me stills. No. I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t care. I don’t voice this thought to my father, though.
I lift my chin. “If you have something to say, say it.”
His smile widens. “He’s been here, in Chicago.”
I feel that in my ribs.
My father sees the flicker in my face and enjoys it.
“And he hasn’t been there alone,” he continues. “He has your little replacement with him. His whore of a mistress.”
For a second, I cannot breathe.My replacement. That’s not even the cruel part, and yet it is the part that lands first. Birdie is back, and Lorenzo with her. Something deep in my chest gives a slow, awful twist. Not sharp enough to be surprised. Too familiar for that. No, this is something older. Something I have known since the moment I married him.
I will never be first.
Not first in his heart. Not first in his mind. Not first in the life he would choose if he were ever allowed to choose honestly. I was the suitable option while she was always the weakness. The woman he would burn down cities for.
I knew that, which is why I helped have her removed. But she clearly didn’t tell Lorenzo I had hand in sending her to Italy. I know that with every fiber in my body. If he knew, he would kill me.
I make myself hold my father’s gaze. “You’re lying.”
“No.” He leans back, enjoying himself. “Conti left you here while he played house with the fat blonde.”
I will not let him see this hurt me. But he knows me too well and knows exactly where to press.
“He didn’t even bother hiding it properly,” my father says. “That’s the most pathetic part. He’s made a fool of you, Francesca, and everyone knows it.”
My throat tightens because he is right. Not about Birdie. Not about whatever is between Lorenzo and me, because there has never been enough there to truly break. But about the humiliation. About the fact that if he has heard, others have heard too. That somewhere in those whispers is the simple truth I have spent my whole marriage trying not to look at.
I was never his first pick. Maybe not even his second. Just the woman who helped him gain more power.
I force out a breath. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“There she is,” he says softly. “My practical daughter.”
I hate him. I hate that he can still talk to me like this, as though he shaped me and therefore owns what is left.
He stands and comes closer, but I don’t move. His eyes drop to my stomach again. His expression changes slightly in a calculating way.
“You’re going to help me,” he says.
