“Seane Brennan is dead,” he continues, still calm. “Yet his daughter remains in your house. Even after her uncle came to retrieve her.”
The room stills.
Giulio lifts his gaze to mine. “Is there a reason for this?”
Salvatore’s eyes lower. Marco remains motionless.
“She’s being protected,” I say.
Giulio smiles faintly, but there’s no warmth in it. “By whom?”
“By this house.”
Salvatore speaks then, his tone measured. “She’s a symbol of good faith.”
That’s support. Also a warning. I look at him.
He continues, “The Brennan alliance suffered a direct wound. Keeping the daughter under protection signals continuity. It tells their people the agreement still stands.”
He’s framing it correctly. Not emotionally. Structurally.
“Yes,” I say.
Giulio turns to him. “Continuity with what?” A small pause. “The marriage is suspended. The father is dead. The son is absent.”
“The alliance remains useful,” Salvatore replies.
“Useful things must justify their upkeep,” Giulio says.
“They do.”
“And has she?”
I pick up one strip of orange peel, turning it slightly between my fingers. “She stabilizes Irish reaction.”
“Rory Brennan disagrees,” Giulio says.
“Rory Brennan is grieving,” I reply.
“He’s also insulted,” Giulio says. “And insulted men tend to become unpredictable.”
“Yes.”
“Then why not return the girl and remove the insult before it becomes something else?”
“Because returning her removes leverage,” I answer.
Giulio’s eyes sharpen. “Leverage against whom?”
“The Irish.”
“Or us?”
The room tightens. I set the orange peel down with precision. “Say what you mean.”
Giulio doesn’t smile this time. “She asks questions,” he says. “She moves through your house with more freedom than a guest should have. Staff speak to her. Guards adjust around her.” He pauses. “Your system bends.”
No one moves. Because now we’re no longer discussing Ireland.
