“Can you prove it?”
His jaw works once. No. No one can prove anything. That’s the point. Dante remains present in every gap and absent from every record.
“I can keep you alive,” Rory says.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s the first thing.”
“Not always.”
“Don’t say that.”
“There were men at the scene,” I say. “Police. Vitale soldiers. Someone cleaned it. Someone altered the timeline. Someone removed Dante from the official version before I arrived.”
“All the more reason?—”
“All the more reason to stay close to the machinery.”
“It’ll crush you.”
“Only if I stand in the wrong place.”
He stares at me. “You sound like him.”
My stomach pulls tight. “My father?”
“Yes.”
“He made mistakes.”
“So will you.”
I could leave this afternoon. Walk out through the front doors with my uncle beside me and Brennan men around me. The gates would open. The drive would curve away through cypress and stone and armed silence. The house would diminish behind reinforced glass. I could sleep behind Irish walls. Eat food not delivered by people reporting on whether I swallow. Walk through rooms without mapping surveillance. Speak my father’s name without measuring who benefits from hearing it.
I could bury what remains of him properly. I could be his daughter before I’m his revenge.
For one second, the thought has weight. Then I set it down. Because leaving gives me distance. It gives me safety. Control of my own movements. A bed not chosen by Alessandro Vitale. Doors I can open because they’re mine.
It also gives me nothing useful.
“No.”
Rory goes still. “You don’t understand what I’m offering.”
“I do.”
“You can leave today.”
“I know.”
“No pursuit.”
“I heard you.”
“No retaliation.”
“You said.”
