He shifts slightly, the faint mechanical whir under fabric barely noticeable unless someone is listening for it. His hand rests on the cane again.
“It serves its purpose,” he adds, voice calm and controlled.
“But it doesn’t bring in the kind of money that keeps real problems away,” another man answers, voice rough with age. “You made yourself visible. You’ve got connections everywhere, and that means people see you from every angle. If you want to stay safe, you need deeper pockets and stronger friends than the ones you’ve got now.”
“I know,” Father says, irritation clear in his voice. “That’s why I have kept certain property untouched and ready for the right arrangement.”
“That better mean it’s clean,” one man says. “I don’t pay premium for something that’s already been worn down.”
I know they’re not talking about paperwork or shipments or anything normal. I’ve heard this tone my whole life.
It’s the tone people use when they’re deciding what something is worth, and whether it’s worth the trouble.
I stay where I am in the hallway, leaning a little against the wall, listening carefully. Part of me already wants to leave. Part of me is too used to this house to think it matters.
Property. Clean. Premium.
Such awful words I’ve been listening to my whole life, each one of them having a worse meaning than the other.
I brush my arm, and my sleeve grazes the door, making a small sound on the wood.
The talking cuts off.
I look up, and they’re all staring at me.
That feeling hits again. I feel exposed, and I catch myself pulling at my shirt and shifting my arms closer to my body, embarrassed by the reflex.
I’m fully dressed in jeans and a plain T-shirt that hides everything—nothing tight, revealing or sexy, yet I still feel stripped down in front of them, like they can see straight through fabric and skin.
“Gentlemen,” my father says, voice steady, almost pleasant, as he leans into the carved head of his cane. “This lovely lady is my daughter. Isabella Calvano.”
Lovely lady?
Since when does my father speak about me like that? Since when does he look at me long enough to notice anything worth praising?
My father is fifty-five. These men are older. Much older. Sixty. Seventy. Maybe more.
I notice it all at once. The sag of skin at their throats, the spotted hands wrapped around glasses, the way some of them breathe like each inhale is a struggle.
I force a small smile, because that’s what daughters do when they’re brought into rooms they don’t belong in.
A man somewhere to my left gives a low, appreciative hum.
“Exquisite,” he says, like he’s examining porcelain. “You’ve kept her very well.”
Another chuckles under his breath.
“Healthier than I expected,” he mutters. “Clear skin. Good posture. Strong eyes.”
Strong eyes? I swallow, suddenly unsure where to look.
“Graceful,” another voice says. “She’ll … adapt easily.”
The first one leans closer, his creased eyes squinting behind the glasses.
“Does she speak? Or is she quiet by nature?”
My father gives a soft, amused breath.
