“There was never a promise of perfect safety,” I say. “Not in this world. You know that.”
She sets the plates down with a clatter that is too loud in the quiet kitchen.
“They aren’t from this world,” she says, her voice cracking. “Elena was a prosecutor, Bianca was a chef who inherited a debt that was never hers. I brought Olivia into this world when I hired her. Erica took a job as Nico’s secretary when her dad got sick. Elsa was some financial advisor on a deal Antonio was working on.
Hell, the only one you could reasonably say stepped into this world with her eyes wide open is Teresa. And only because she already worked with violent offenders. Vito still literally dragged her into this world."
She looks at me, and her expression is so raw, so exposed.
"They got married. They had children. They didn't sign up for this."
“No,” I agree. “They didn’t. But they knew the world they were marrying into.”
“No one ever thought it would come to this,” she says. “Not even Papà. The great Luca Conti couldn't predict something like this." The bitterness is back, but this time, not aimed at me.
And I'm going to have to break her heart. Because it is my job to break it now, to shatter whatever illusions she might still have so that she can accept reality.
I cross my arms.
“Your father is a formidable man,” I say. “He’s built an empire. He’s survived wars that would have destroyed lesser men. But, and I know this is hard to believe, he's just a man, Caterina. He's not infallible. He's made mistakes, and so has everyone else. And this is a direct result of one of them.”
I can see her mind racing, trying to connect the dots of what I'm not saying.
"What mistake?" she demands. "He's more careful than anyone I know."
"Is he?" I challenge. "Or is he careful about the things he's always been careful about, and less so about the things that have become commonplace in his life? Things like the people who have been around for decades, the people he's learned to trust implicitly. Things like the routines that have become so second nature they've become invisible."
I can see her starting to understand. And I can see her hating that she's starting to understand.
"He's always been careful," she repeats, but her voice is weaker now.
"Yes," I say. "But he's been careful about the same things for so long, he's forgotten to look at them with fresh eyes. And someone has taken advantage of that. Someone who knows him, knows his family, knows the routines, knows the vulnerabilities."
She picks up the serving spoon for the pasta and just holds it, her knuckles white. For a long moment, I think she’s going to put the lid back on everything and walk away without eating.
Then she scoops a portion onto one of the plates. Then another. Her movements are stiff, but she’s doing it.
When she’s done, she puts the lid back on the container and sets the spoon down with a sharp click.
“You make it sound like he’s been careless.”
“He’s been comfortable,” I counter. “And comfort is the enemy of awareness.”
She slides one of the plates across the island toward me without looking at me.
“Eat.”
I pick up a fork. I recognize this gesture for what it is. An attempt to reclaim a piece of the normalcy she feels I’ve stolen. A truce of sorts. An enforced civilian moment.
I accept it.
For a few minutes, there’s only the sound of forks scraping against ceramic. The food is excellent; the kind of meal that could make a man forget his own name if he let it.
"Do you know the details of the threat?" she finally asks after a few minutes of silence.
I pause with a forkful of pasta halfway to my mouth and look at her. Her face is no longer the same careful mask of indifference. There's a desperate hunger for knowledge there, for details.
She wants to understand what she's up against. She's not just a victim anymore. She's a soldier who needs to know the battlefield.
