“Yes.”
“You think removing bottles makes me obedient.”
“No.”
“What does it make me?”
“Sober.”
He laughs again, and this time there’s no mask. “You always did confuse control with virtue.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I confuse neither. I value one and require the other.”
He steps closer. “You required a marriage, too.”
The room stills.
“I did,” I say.
“To contain me.”
“Yes.”
His face tightens. “And how did that work?”
Not a question about the marriage. A question about Seane Brennan. He wants to see whether I’ll flinch. I don’t.
“Poorly,” I answer.
His eyes sharpen. “You admit that.”
“Yes.”
“It failed,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Then maybe your structures aren’t as strong as you think.”
“Structures fail when men refuse correction.”
“And who corrects you?”
Silence. A good question. Dangerous because it’s true. Salvatore, sometimes. Consequence, always.
Too late. I don’t answer.
Dante notices. He smiles. There’s too much of Isabelle’s mouth in it.
“You’re not going to ask how I’ve been,” he says.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
