Chapter 10 #2
"Maybe," he says. "Or maybe you're just fighting it on the wrong front."
I look at him, at the way the kitchen light catches the planes of his face, the quiet intensity in his eyes. And for the first time since he walked into my life, I don't see him as an intruder or a problem to be managed.
I see him as someone who understands.
And incredibly handsome? How did I miss that?
The thought occurs so suddenly that it irritates me.
I drag my eyes away from his face almost immediately, as if that will undo it.
No. Absolutely not.
This is exhaustion, fear, adrenaline, too much proximity, too much honesty, and an entire day of him forcing me to look at things I did not want to look at. That is all.
His brow shifts slightly, like he can tell something changed even if he cannot possibly know what.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
His gaze stays on me for one beat longer, unreadable in the dark.
Then, mercifully, he lets it go.
But that does not change the feeling. And I find myself wanting to tell him something, something I've never told anyone. Not my father, not my brothers, not even my sister.
I want to tell him about the dreams I had when I was a little girl, the dreams of running away, of leaving this all behind and never looking back. I want to tell him about the night I decided to stay, the night I realized that running away wouldn't change who I was, or where I came from.
I want to tell him that I chose this life.
Not the violence, not the fear, not the constant looking over my shoulder.
But the family.
The business.
The power.
The complex, messy, complicated, and often brutal world that I was born into.
I want to tell him that I'm not a victim of my circumstances.
I'm a product of my choices.
But I don't.
I can't.
Because even if he understands, even if he sees me for who I am, he's still an outsider.
And there are some things an outsider can never understand.
I'm tired and scared, and he's standing here explaining my family to me in a way no one ever has, and all I can think about is how I want to reach out and touch him. To feel the solidness of him, to know that I'm not alone in this.
But I don't.
I can't.
Instead, I turn back to the railing, my hands gripping it so tightly my knuckles are white.
"What do I do?" I ask, the words barely a whisper. "How do I fight a battle on a front they won't even let me see?"
He doesn't answer right away.
I can feel him thinking, weighing his words. I can feel the shift in the air as he moves closer, until he's standing right beside me, so close I can feel the heat of his body.
"You don't," he says, his voice low and steady. "You don't fight them on their terms. You don't try to break down the walls they've built around you. You build your own."
I turn to him, my eyes wide.
"What are you talking about?"
"You build your own information network," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You cultivate your own sources. You listen. You watch. You learn. You become the person they have to come to, not the person they have to manage."
I stare at him, my mind racing.
It's a brilliant idea. A dangerous, brilliant idea.
And it's so simple, it's almost insulting that I didn't think of it myself.
I've been so focused on the injustice of it all, on the way they've been treating me, that I haven't been thinking strategically.
I've been thinking like an employee.
Not like a Conti.
I've spent my whole life trying to fit into the family as it is. As it has always been.
Tradition, Adrian called it. And that’s what it has always been.
A set of unwritten rules that I was never supposed to question, only learn to navigate.
The men handle the threats, the women manage the homes and the children, and the social power. The men are the shields, the women are the heart. That's the story. That's the lie.
And I've been living in the space between the two.
I have a degree in business, but I've been running the family's legitimate operations as if I were managing a normal corporation. I've been focused on profits, on logistics, on efficiency. I've been good at it. Exceptional, even. But I've been thinking like a CEO, not a don's daughter.
And it's not enough.
It's never been enough.
Because in this world, in my world, information is more valuable than money. And power isn't about who has the most authority; it's about who knows the most.
And right now, I know nothing.
I look at him, and this time I see him as something entirely new.
An opportunity.
"Teach me," I say, the words coming out of my mouth before I can think better of them.
His expression doesn't change, but I can feel the shift in him again, the slight tensing of his shoulders.
"That's not my job," he says.
"I know," I say, my voice steady now, the fear and the exhaustion receding, replaced by a sense of purpose so sharp it's almost painful. "But you're here. And you see things. You know things. And you're not afraid to say them. And I need that."
I take a step closer to him, until we're almost touching, the space between us charged with an energy that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something entirely new and unexplainable.
"I don't want to be a liability anymore, Adrian," I say, my voice low and intense. "I don't want to be the person they have to protect. I want to be the person they can rely on. The person they can trust to get things done. To handle things they can't."
He looks at me for a long moment, and in his eyes I see a flicker of something that looks like respect. Or at least, consideration.
"And what do you think they're going to do when they find out you're building your own network?
" he asks, his voice a low counterpoint to mine.
"You think your father is going to be pleased when he realizes you're going around him?
You think your brothers are going to thank you for showing them up? "
"I don't care," I say, and I realize with a shock that it's true. "I don't care if they're pleased. I don't care if they're grateful. I care if they're safe. I care if my family is safe. And if this is what it takes, then this is what I'll do."
I hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth in my words, the depth of my conviction.
"I'm not asking for your permission, Adrian," I say. "I'm asking for your help."
He studies my face, a long, silent assessment. The night air seems to hold its breath. The only sounds are the distant hum of the city and the frantic beating of my own heart.
Then, he gives a single, almost imperceptible nod.
"Okay," he says.
And that's it.
One word.
But it's everything.
It's the beginning of something new. Something dangerous. Something that could change everything.
A small smile touches my lips, a real one this time, the first one I've felt since my father dropped the news on me yesterday.
"Okay," I repeat.