My nerves feel too tight under my skin, and I hate that too because it gives this whole thing power it does not deserve. It makes this man more important than he should be before he has even stepped into the room. It makes me feel reactive when what I want is control.
But maybe it is not really about him.
Maybe it is about what he represents.
A line crossed.
A decision made.
The latest reminder that no matter how much I do, no matter how capable I am, no matter how much responsibility I carry, the people around me still reserve the right to close ranks and take the choice away from me.
I spray the perfume lightly at my wrists and throat, then set the bottle down and head downstairs.
The kitchen is cool and bright with early light now.
I start the coffee and stand there waiting for it, arms folded, staring out the back windows at the quiet yard beyond. Usually, this part of the morning settles me.
Today, it just gives my mind more room to spin.
Threat against Luca Conti’s children.
That part is not nothing.
I know that. I do.
I am angry, but I am not stupid. If there is a real threat, then precautions matter. Security matters. Seriousness matters. I understand why he’s taking it this far if he truly believes there is a traitor somewhere inside our own ranks.
Hell, that part bothers me more than anything else. Not the enemy outside. The possibility of rot inside. The possibility that somebody already close enough to know our patterns and our vulnerabilities has chosen to sell them.
That is not small.
And still, none of that changes the fact that this is happening to mewithoutme.
The coffee finishes brewing. I pour a cup and take it black, because anything sweeter this morning would probably just irritate me. I lean one hip against the counter and take a sip, letting the bitterness sit on my tongue.
At some point soon, I am going to have to meet him.
Look him in the eye.
Shake his hand, maybe. Though I already know I don’t want to. Sit across from him while he assesses me like a problem he has been hired to solve.
The thought sends another flare of resistance through me.
He is not taking over my life.
I don’t care what Papà said.
I don’t care what Vito arranged.
I don’t care how decorated or experienced or broadly built or professionally intimidating this man is supposed to be.
He may be here. He may be assigned to me.
But he is not coming in and simply taking over.
Not without a fight.
I take another sip of coffee, square my shoulders, and stare out into the morning light as if I can force myself into steadiness through sheer refusal alone.
