I close the drawer. “Luca,” I call.
He appears without delay. “She’s in the garden.”
“I know.”
A pause. “She’s been there longer than usual.”
“Yes.”
He waits. Not for instruction. For confirmation.
“Send her to me.”
He nods once and leaves.
I don’t go to the study. The study is where she expects confrontation. I wait in my bedroom. Different ground. Different rules.
The door opens without announcement. She doesn’t knock. She never does when she intends to hold her position. She steps inside, closing the door behind her with quiet precision. Her posture is controlled. Her face arranged into something neutral enough to pass as indifference if one isn’t looking closely.
I am looking closely.
“Don Vitale,” she says.
Formal. Distance as a weapon.
“Evie.”
She doesn’t move further into the room immediately. That’s a calculation. Space is leverage. Distance is safety.
“Luca said you wanted to see me.”
“I did.”
Silence settles. I let it. She’s waiting for the shape of the conversation. For the angle of attack. For the first indication of what I intend to take from her.
I don’t give it to her. Instead, I say, “You’ve adjusted your schedule.”
Her eyes flicker once. “Have I?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You wake earlier.”
A pause. “I’ve always woken up early.”
“No.”
She doesn’t respond immediately. Good.
“You’ve changed your meals.”
“People do that.”
“Not without reason.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly. There it is.
