“Marriage,” he says.
For a second, just one, I think he might be joking. I almost smile. Then I look at the papers again.
Of course. A contract, with my name on it.
“To whom?” I ask.
“Dante Vitale.”
I know the name. Everyone does, if they listen in the right places.
Dante Vitale. Only son of Alessandro Vitale. Heir to one of the most disciplined families on the American East Coast. Twenty-nine. Expensive habits. Temper issues. A man mostly described by what his father has stopped him from doing.
“What did he break?” I ask.
My father’s hand stills slightly. A small win. “This isn’t about Dante.”
“It rarely is with men like that.”
“Siobhan.”
I lean back. “I’m listening.”
“No,” he says. “You’re measuring.”
“I learned from you.”
For a moment, he looks tired. That frightens me more than his anger. My father has always seemed built from older things. Stone, soil, things that don’t bend easily. Men lower their voices when he enters rooms without being told to. Today, he looks like a man holding up something very heavy and pretending it weighs nothing at all.
“The alliance has to hold,” he says. “There are pressures you don’t know about.”
“Then tell me.”
“I’ve told you enough.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes.”
At least we’re honest about that.
He comes around the desk and sits across from me instead of behind it. That’s the second warning. This isn’t just business. This is personal.
I hate that.
“The Italians are structured,” he says. “Disciplined. Alessandro Vitale has kept his family intact for twenty years.”
“And his son?”
“His son can be contained.”
I tilt my head. “By me?”
“By the arrangement.”
I let out a small laugh. “Right. So this isn’t really about me.”
His eyes sharpen. “Don’t make yourself smaller than you are.”
