22. Chapter Twenty-Two #3
Something shifts behind Francis’s eyes.
“You think working for me killed him.”
“I think working for you is why he was on that road.”
His jaw tightens.
“The accident wasn’t my fault.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, I mean it without qualification.
“My grief needed someone to blame.”
I meet his stare.
“You were convenient.”
Francis looks away.
The admission doesn’t absolve either of us.
It does make the truth easier to carry.
“I don’t hate you,” I say. “But I can’t spend the rest of my life paying a debt my father never asked me to inherit.”
“You believe that’s what this is?”
“Sometimes.”
His expression becomes unreadable.
“I gave you opportunities.”
“Yes.”
“I treated you like family.”
“Sometimes.”
The repeated word lands harder this time.
Francis turns toward the windows overlooking the estate.
“And the rest of the time?”
“I was the son of the man who worked for you.”
His shoulders stiffen.
“I became useful. Loyal. Dependable.”
“All admirable qualities.”
“They aren’t an identity.”
He faces me again.
“So this is about finding yourself?”
“It’s about choosing something for myself.”
“What?”
The answer is larger than Simone.
But she is part of it.
“My future.”
Francis laughs once without humor.
“You’re exhausted. You survived a plane crash and several days of isolation. This isn’t the time to make permanent decisions.”
“I made this decision before the crash.”
That isn’t entirely true.
I felt it before.
The island forced me to stop ignoring it.
Francis walks toward the coffee machine and places a cup beneath it.
“You’re the best man I’ve had in years.”
The machine hums.
“You’re disciplined. Intelligent. Loyal.”
He presses a button.
“You’re throwing away a career because of a temporary emotional reaction.”
My patience tightens.
“This letter is notice.”
Francis looks over his shoulder.
“Not a request.”
The coffee begins dripping into the cup.
His face changes.
He finally understands that I’m not the sixteen-year-old boy who accepted whatever position he was offered because his family needed security.
“You would walk away now?” he asks. “With the pilot still missing?”
“I’ll complete the debrief and cooperate with the investigation.”
“And Simone?”
My pulse changes.
Francis notices.
Of course he does.
“She’ll have another protection detail.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I say nothing.
He sets the untouched cup on the counter.
“What happened between you and my daughter?”
The question is calm.
Too calm.
I could lie.
I’ve lied to him before through omission.
Not now.
“I fell in love with her.”
The room becomes silent.
Francis stares at me.
I continue before he can respond.
“I’m not resigning because she asked me to. She doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Does Bran know?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still standing?”
“Barely.”
Francis doesn’t smile.
“My daughter is vulnerable.”
“I know.”
“She nearly died.”
“I know.”
“You were assigned to protect her.”
“I did protect her.”
“And while she was isolated and dependent on you—”
“Be careful.”
My voice lowers.
Francis’s eyes flash.
I have never warned him before.
Not once.
“Simone made her own decisions. She was sober, informed, and clear about what she wanted.”
His jaw flexes.
“And what happens when she no longer needs you to survive?”
“She still gets to choose.”
“You believe she’ll choose you?”
“She already has.”
The words hurt him.
Not because I’m beneath her.
Because Francis is realizing Simone built a part of her life he did not authorize.
“She has a career,” he says. “Public obligations. A future.”
“So do I.”
“Do you?”
The insult is quiet.
Effective.
Old Luca would have absorbed it.
Used it as proof that Francis was right.
I straighten.
“I will.”
He studies me for a long moment.
Then he picks up my resignation letter.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.”
I don’t look away.
“But it will be mine.”
Francis folds the letter along its existing crease.
“You have thirty days.”
“Two weeks.”
“Thirty.”
“Fine.”
I can give him thirty days to transfer responsibilities and complete the investigation.
I won’t give him my future.
Francis places the letter inside a drawer.
Not in the trash.
It’s the closest thing to acceptance I’m likely to receive today.
“You’re dismissed.”
The words are intended to reduce me to an employee again.
They don’t.
I turn toward the door.
“Luca.”
I stop but don’t look back.
“If you hurt her, there will be nowhere you can hide.”
The threat is expected.
My answer isn’t.
“If I hurt her, I won’t hide.”
I leave his office.
Outside, morning light fills the corridor.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
A message from Simone.
Are you still coming over?
I smile.
Yes.
Three dots appear immediately.
Good. I miss you.
The words settle somewhere warm inside me.
For years, I believed my life was an inheritance.
My father’s work.
Francis’s expectations.
A debt I could never finish paying.
I step outside and breathe air that feels entirely different from the air I entered with.
I don’t know what comes next.
For the first time, that doesn’t frighten me.
Whatever happens now will belong to me.