My father’s name doesn’t appear.
Because he was dead.
The room tilts. I place one hand on the desk until it steadies.
Not now. Absolutely not now.
I read.
Territory disruption. Irish alliance instability. Dante Vitale incident.
My eyes catch there and stop.
Incident.
Men love that word. It can hold anything, no matter how ugly.
I continue. The handwriting changes midway down. Formal notes end. A separate memorandum begins.
Alessandro’s handwriting. I know it now. Precise. Each letter disciplined into obedience.
My pulse slows as I read the first line.
Dante confessed.
The room disappears. Everything moves around those two words.
Dante confessed.
My father’s killer said the truth aloud, and the truth reached this room.
My hand flattens over the paper. The edges bite into my palm.
Good. Pain anchors. Pain is useful.
I force myself to read the next line.
Irish alliance partner killed.
NotSeane.
NotBrennan.
Alliance partner.
Of course. Men become roles when guilt needs distance.
Irish alliance partner killed.
I almost laugh. It doesn’t come out. Laughter might become something else, and there’s no room for something else.
Next line.
Containment required.
There it is. The family prayer.Containment.Not justice. Not confession. Not surrender.Containment.
My breath comes in, too shallow. I adjust. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
