Page 6 of Reign

“Yes, the cartel.” His tone sharpens like I’m the one being dense. “Your mother and I aren’t having any more children. Valentina is our last. You’re my only son, Luciano. My only heir. If anything should happen to you—”

“She’s nine.”

His expression doesn’t change. “I’m aware of how old she is.”

“She’s a child.”

“And that,” he says, steepling his fingers on the desk, “is exactly why we train her early.”

I let out a sharp breath through my nose and shake my head. “So what? We’re going to do the same thing with Valentina?”

He looks almost amused. “Don’t be ridiculous. Valentina is four.”

“When she’s nine, then?” I bite out. “Is that when we start with her too?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Final. “Just Adriana.”

He goes on as if he’s assigning me inventory instead of a little girl who still sleeps with the hallway light on during storms.

“Natalia Nowak is six years old and already learning how to shoot,” he says. “Casimir isn’t crying over it. We’re late with Adriana.”

My jaw tightens.

Of course he’d use the fucking Nowaks, as though anything they do makes this right.

“We’re not the Nowaks.”

My father’s gaze hardens. “No. And that’s why Adriana will be trained by you, not by men who will make her cruel before they make her useful.”

That lands somewhere between reassurance and threat.

“I need you to handle it.”

“I’m the heir. We don’t need to train Adriana.”

My father’s gaze settles on me, calm and heavy. “Are you planning on having children of your own?”

I frown. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeats.

I say nothing.

He taps a finger once against the desk. “So tell me, Luciano. If I hand you power and something happens to you before there is a son to follow, then what? The cartel goes to who?”

I already know where he’s going with this, and I hate it.

“Rogelio?”

“No.” I hate when he brings up his right-hand man.

“Exactly.” He spreads his hands. “So if you don’t plan to marry in the next two years and give me an heir, then Adriana is what we have. She’ll grow into it. And if anything happens to you—”

“Stop saying that.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

A long silence stretches between us.

Then I force out, “It doesn’t make sense.”