“Romano.”
Stony-faced as Luca is, I can tell he dislikes when I use his surname.
“The don is in council,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “I assumed the house had not arranged this much silver for my personal emotional development.”
His mouth does not move. “You’re to remain in the south wing.”
“How fascinating.”
“Miss Brennan.”
“Was that an order?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“From Alessandro?”
“Yes.”
“How surprising.”
Luca says nothing. That’s why he’s hard to enjoy.
I walk past him. He moves with me.
“South wing,” he says.
“I’m in the south wing.”
“You’re leaving it.”
“I’m expanding my understanding of its borders.”
“You’re walking toward the council corridor.”
“Then the borders are educational.”
He steps in front of me. I look up at him. “Luca.”
“No.”
“I’m pregnant, not contagious.”
“I know.”
“Then move.”
“No.”
We stand there in the corridor, two immovable objects, except one of us has twins pressing against her bladder and therefore a less generous relationship with time.
“I need air,” I say.
“The terrace is behind you.”
“I need different air.”
