“I have reports.”
“Reports.” He moves away, shaking his head. “You read about your son instead of speaking to him.”
“I read because speech with you is often performance.”
He turns fast. “There it is.”
“Yes.”
“You ever wonder why?”
“No.”
A lie. He sees enough to push. “Maybe I perform because nothing else gets through to you.”
“Incorrect.”
“Oh? What gets through?”
“Discipline.”
He laughs. “You sent me away.”
“I should have done more.” The words leave my mouth before I can structure them differently.
Dante freezes. So does the room. Luca’s gaze shifts to me. Marco, at the door now, goes still.
Dante’s expression changes. For one second, he looks younger. Eight years old in the hall, standing outside a locked door.
No. Remove that thought. This isn’t about Isabelle. This is about today.
“What does that mean?” Dante asks.
“It means you’re on shorter tolerance than you believe.”
His eyes harden. The younger face disappears.
“Because of her.”
“Yes.”
“Because of the Irish girl.”
I step closer. One pace. The room tightens around the movement.
“Her name is Evie.”
His mouth curls. “She was mine first.”
Luca moves, but I stop him with one look. Dante must be seen. Fully. No correction before record. No shield before evidence. He continues because he mistakes restraint for permission.
“She signed a contract withme,” Dante says.
“Yes.”
“And now she’s in your rooms.”
“No.”
