Because he has already won.
I turn and head for the door, every step clipped and hot with anger. My hand is already on the knob when his voice stops me.
“Caterina.”
I do not turn around.
After a beat, he says, quieter now, “This is not a punishment. It’s for your safety.”
My throat goes tight for one stupid, aggravating second.
I keep my hand on the knob and stare at the dark wood of the door in front of me.
“You think I don’t know that? That I’m so stupid and naïve that I don’t understand that?” My fingers tighten on the knob. “The punishment is not the bodyguard. It’s the reminder that, no matter what I do, my family will always look at me and see a little girl throwing a tantrum, and not a woman who feels disrespected because you only bothered to tell me after it was already done.”
I press my lips together to hold back a sob. I will not cry here. No fucking way. I turn my head and look at him.
“You can make all the decisions you want about my life and what it takes to protect it, but at the end of the day,I’mthe one who has to live with them because it’smy life. Yes, I am your daughter. But that’s not all I am.”
Then I walk out before he can answer.
Chapter Three
Adrian
Dinner is at the long table next to the windows that look out over the garden. There’s a high chandelier that throws warm light over polished silver, crystal glasses, and plates that probably cost more than my first car.
The room is elegant without being stiff. Beyond the glass, the garden is dark now except for the soft wash of landscape lighting over trimmed hedges and pale stone paths.
Pretty view. Bad security. Too much glass.
Beautiful houses are almost always built with the assumption that beauty matters as much as survival.
I sit where I can see the room, the windows, both doors, and as much of the house as the angle gives me.
Habit.
Across from me, Teresa watches with the look she used to get when I was twenty and too serious for my own good.
“Eat,” she says.
“I am eating.”
“You’re evaluating the room and pretending to eat.”
“I'm evaluating the roomandeating. I can manage both.”
Vito doesn’t bother to look up, but there’s a flicker at one corner of his mouth that suggests he might find that funny.
It’s true. I can manage to hate the fact that one whole side of the house is made of windowsandeat this delicious dinner at the same time.
It’s good. Better than good. Some kind of braised and slow-cooked short rib over creamy polenta, with roasted vegetables, crusty bread, and the kind of sauce you can tell took time.
The woman I saw in the kitchen must have had a hand in it, unless Teresa’s cooking has gotten better. It's not that she was ever bad at it, but that she was never interested enough to become better at it.
But she's always been the type to become really good at anything that interests her, even when it never did before.
Teresa catches me looking at the plate and lifts a brow.
