Chapter 30 #2
She is sitting very straight, seatbelt still fastened, hands clasped too tightly in her lap. Not panicked. Not close. But pale enough that I can see the difference even through the light coming through the windshield.
My father is not the only one who knows how to change the air in a room without opening his mouth.
Apparently, the idea of him can do it too.
I reach over and undo my belt.
Then I say quietly, “You don’t have to say much.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
“What is ‘much’ in this context?”
There it is.
That dry edge.
That little flick of herself she keeps even now, even here, even scared.
I feel something in my chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Whatever he asks, answer him,” I say. “But you don’t have to fill silence.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s practical.”
She studies my face for a second.
Then: “Is he going to be furious with me?”
The question softens my anger just a fraction. But only for a second.
Not because it’s irrational.
Because it is so completely rational that it makes me want to put my fist through the steering wheel.
“No,” I say immediately.
Her brows lift.
“He seems furious,” she says.
“He’s furious with me,” I say. “He has a reputation, yes, but he wouldn’t take it out on an innocent party. Just let me take it, okay?”
Teresa’s mouth presses thin. “That’s not exactly comforting.”
“It’s the best I’ve got right now.”
She nods once.
I open my door and step out.
The late-day air hits hot after the coolness of the car. Gravel shifts under my shoes. The house looms large behind my father, all stone and strength and power.”
My father stops a few feet from the front of the car and waits.
I shut the door behind me, then go around to Teresa’s side before she can open it herself. Not because she can’t. Because right now I need one more second to put myself between her and everything else.
When I open the door, she looks up at me from the seat.
Her composure is good.
Very good.
Only I know her well enough now to see the strain in it.
I hold out my hand.
She looks at it for half a second, then takes it.
Her fingers are cool.
Mine aren’t.
I help her out of the car, and the second she’s standing beside me, my father’s gaze shifts to her.
Evaluating.
Taking in who she is. What she looks like. The fact that she’s here by my side, taking my hand. She insisted on changing back into one of the outfits I brought from her house, so even though her hair is windblown, she’s put together.
I feel Teresa tense almost imperceptibly beside me under his gaze.
I don’t let go of her hand.
My father’s eyes come back to mine.
For one second, neither of us speaks.
Then he says, “My office.”
My relief is immediate at that.
Not the living room.
Not some performance in front of the entire family with everyone lined up and pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.
I tighten my hand around Teresa’s once, subtle enough that only she would notice. She glances at me for half a second, and I don’t know what she reads in my face—warning, maybe, or reassurance—but she gives the smallest nod.
My father turns without another word and heads back toward the front door.
We follow.
The entryway is cool after the heat outside, polished and familiar and suddenly strange as hell after weeks away.
The house smells like lemon oil, old wood, faint cigar smoke, and the ghosts of Sunday dinners that never entirely leave these walls.
My whole body goes on alert the second I step over the threshold.
Voices carry from somewhere deeper in the house.
Muted, but several at once.
Teresa hears them too. I can feel it in the way her fingers tense in mine.
My father does not pause. He doesn’t even glance toward the living room, where I know most of them probably are. Instead, he moves straight through the foyer, past the main staircase, and toward the hallway that leads to his office.
No detour. No introductions. No audience.
Again, to his credit.
That does not improve my mood much, but it keeps it from turning worse.
We pass the archway that opens toward the formal sitting room, and I catch movement there out of the corner of my eye—someone standing, someone else turning—but no one comes out. No one calls after us.
Either my father told them to stay put, or they’re smart enough to understand that if he’s walking me straight to his office, this is not the moment to make themselves part of it.
The hallway gets quieter as we move away from the rest of the house.
Teresa’s steps stay even beside me, but I know she’s working for it. I know the difference now between her real calm and the version of it she puts on when she has no other choice. This is the second one. I can hear it in the measured pace of her breathing, see it in the straightness of her spine.
My father reaches the office door and opens it.
He steps aside just enough for us to enter first.
That is not politeness.
That is strategy.
He wants us inside his room, in his space, before he closes the door. Wants us placed. Boxed in.
Fine.
I lead Teresa in.
The office is exactly as I remember it—large without being showy, dark wood everywhere, bookshelves lining one wall, the wide desk near the windows, heavy chairs facing it. The curtains are partly open, letting in the evening breeze.
I hate this office.
I always have.
Too many hard conversations. Too many judgments delivered in a measured tone. Too many reminders of exactly who sits where in this family.
Behind me, the door closes with a quiet, deliberate click.
That sound straightens my spine.
My father moves behind the desk but doesn’t sit immediately. Instead, he stands there with both hands braced lightly on the wood and looks first at me, then at Teresa.
“Sit,” he says.
I subtly give Teresa the sign to sit before she can hesitate, before I take the other chair.
Only then does my father lower himself into his own.
Silence stretches in the room.
I can feel Teresa beside me, still, careful, aware of everything. I keep my eyes on my father and wait for him to start.
He folds his hands once on the desk.
When he speaks, his voice is even.
“Do you understand,” he says to me, “how serious this is?”
I lean back a fraction in the chair, not enough to look relaxed, just enough to remind both of us that I’m not sixteen and I’m not standing in this room for a dressing-down like a child.
“Yes.”
His eyes do not move from my face.
“Do you.”
Not a question, really.
A demand for accuracy.
I hold his gaze. “Yes.”
He gives the smallest nod, as though he’s deciding whether that answer is sufficient for now.
Then, to my surprise, he turns to Teresa.
“Dr. Donato.”
Her head lifts slightly at the formal address, but her voice is steady when she answers. “Mr. Conti.”
“I regret that our first proper conversation is under these circumstances.”
It is an extraordinary thing to hear my father say, and because it is extraordinary, I know it cost him nothing and means everything at the same time. Luca Conti does not say sorry casually. He also does not say it unless he has chosen the words in advance.
Teresa, to her credit, doesn’t rush to reassure him.
“I see,” she says.
“I asked that you be brought here,” he says, “because the situation has escalated beyond what can be quietly handled.”
Something cold slides up my spine.
My father’s gaze comes back to me.
“The FBI is investigating Dr. Donato’s disappearance.”
The words hit like a blow.
Next to me, Teresa goes very still.
I don’t move.
Can’t.
Because for one second, all I hear is that one sentence repeating in my head.
My father keeps going.
“It seems that despite some sort of contingency plan being put into place and an explanation of an emergency situation being provided to your office, the FBI has questions about your disappearance.”
He turns his eyes on me. “And they have linked that disappearance to us.
I, being a former convict, was questioned when that link came to light.
But it didn't take long for them to pick up on the fact that Vito here has also been out of town for weeks. And when I found out what he had done, I ordered him to bring you home immediately.”
He pauses and looks between us. I immediately know what's coming.
“However, I must admit that, though I know my son would never have harmed you, it seems the situation here is a lot more… cordial than I expected.”
Teresa flushes at his words.
They just anger me more. The implication of what's gone on between us. He's not wrong, but he doesn't have to embarrass Teresa like that.
“I'm not a man who admits this lightly, but I’m confused. Were you or were you not kidnapped? Because the FBI sure seems to think so, and all the evidence points to it. Then again, kidnap victims don't typically come back looking like they’ve been rolling around in bed with their kidnappers for weeks.”
“That’s enough,” I snap.
My father just lifts a brow at me.
“You brought the FBI down on our house, Vito,” he says softly. But his tone is deceptive.
“I didn’t intend for this to happen.”
“You rarely do, do you?” he says. “But the problem is, you don’t think.”
“I think.”
“Not about consequences,” he says. “You think about what you want in the moment. You think about how to solve an immediate problem. You do not think about the ripples.”
Teresa shifts in her seat.
"Now the FBI wants to talk to her, and she might press charges against you," he says tightly. "And what do you expect me to do? Let her walk out of here and straight to the FBI? Watch you spend the next ten years in some prison?"
I shove out of my seat, enraged. "And what's the alternative? What exactly are you implying?"
"You know what," my father says back, calm as ever, but his eyes are alight with anger.
I can't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth.
I promised Teresa that she would not suffer the consequences of his anger. I never considered that she wouldn't be safe because it was never a possibility. It never even crossed my mind that my father would go to extremes to keep her quiet.
I look at him.
And I see the old steel in him.
The man who did what had to be done.
The man who made choices that sent people away.
The man who is my father.
The rage in me goes cold.
Because he's not wrong about what the family would normally do in this situation. But I am not a normal member of the family anymore. I have Teresa now.
And I will not let them have her.
"No," I say.
My father looks at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he's expecting defiance but not this kind. Not the absolute refusal he's hearing in my voice.
"No," I repeat, more quietly this time, which is more dangerous than the anger.
"What did you just say to me?"
"I said no."
There is a dead silence in the room.
Then I hear her voice. Soft, but clear. Unmistakably her.
"Vito."
I turn.
She’s looking up at me. And there is something in her face I can't read at all. Not fear. Not panic. Just… a steady, calm look.
In fact, it seems almost... professional?
She looks at me, then she looks at my father.
And says something that I am sure is the absolute last thing either one of us expected to come out of her mouth.
"It's okay.”
I open my mouth to say something, but she continues before I can.
“He's bluffing."