Chapter Twenty-Nine #3
“You paid millions to acquire her.”
“I paid millions to remove Mikhailov’s claim.”
“That is the distinction traffickers give purchases when they want to sleep at night.”
My hand tightens around the stem of my glass.
I force it to relax before the crystal breaks.
“What do you want?”
“Lucia will move to a Moretti property.”
“You’ll discuss that with Lucia.”
“The marriage will be annulled.”
“Discuss it with Lucia.”
“You and your brother will cease contact with her.”
“Discuss it with Lucia.”
His palm strikes the table. The glasses jump, and wine moves against the sides of his glass.
“She doesn’t understand the position she occupies.”
“What position is that?”
“My only child. My heir.”
There it is.
Not only a daughter.
An inheritance.
“The Rossi holdings should be consolidated with Moretti interests,” he continues. “Her assets require experienced management.”
“She’s chosen her own management.”
“You mean you.”
“No. She dismissed my people yesterday.”
That stops him.
“She did what?”
“She selected an independent attorney and management company.”
“You allowed that?”
“I wasn’t consulted.”
Matteo stares at me.
The answer doesn’t fit the story he constructed.
Good.
“She’s inexperienced,” he says.
“She’ll learn.”
“She’ll make mistakes.”
“Yes.”
“You’re willing to let her lose the Rossi legacy?”
“It’s hers to lose.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
“No man builds what you’ve built without valuing control.”
“I value it immensely.”
“Except where Lucia is concerned.”
I look through the glass doors.
She stands in the kitchen beside Angela, arranging several of the glass animals on the counter so everyone can see them. Gio holds one toward the light while she warns him not to drop it.
“Especially where Lucia is concerned.”
Matteo follows my gaze.
For a moment, something like pain crosses his face.
He missed twenty-four birthdays.
Today, he watched the rest of us celebrate one.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Then he speaks.
“She’ll come with me.”
“No.”
“You said the decision was hers.”
“It is.”
“Then you cannot answer.”
“I can answer for what happens in this house. No one removes Lucia without her consent.”
“She’s confused.”
The word is too familiar.
Mikhailov used it at Vesuvio.
“She doesn’t know what’s best for her,” Matteo continues.
Neither does Mikhailov.
Neither did I.
“You should leave.”
His eyes return to mine.
“This conversation isn’t finished.”
“It is for today.”
Matteo stands.
“I won’t allow my daughter to remain in a house where two brothers believe they can divide her between them.”
The accusation would have angered me once.
Now it only reveals how little he understands.
“Lucia isn’t divided.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“Chosen.”
His expression hardens.
“You believe she chose you?”
“No.”
The answer surprises him.
“I believe she’s still deciding.”
“And if she decides against you?”
“I sign whatever she puts in front of me.”
“You expect me to believe that.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
Matteo stops at the courtyard doors.
“I spent twenty-four years without knowing I had a daughter.”
“That wasn’t our doing.”
“No.”
His gaze moves toward the kitchen.
“But I won’t spend the next twenty-four watching the Catenzios take what should have been mine.”
A warning settles beneath the words.
“She was never yours.”
Matteo looks at me.
“Neither is she yours.”
“No.”
I stand.
“That’s the difference between us.”
He leaves without saying goodbye to Lucia.
From the kitchen, her gaze follows him through the house.
Then it moves to me.
“What happened?” she asks when she reaches the terrace.
“Your father and I disagree.”
“About what?”
“You.”
Her expression closes.
“What about me?”
“He believes the marriage should be annulled and you should move to a Moretti property.”
“And you?”
“I told him to speak with you.”
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
“He left without asking.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he believed I had the authority to agree.”
Her gaze moves toward the drive.
“He’s my father.”
“The test hasn’t confirmed that yet.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I believe he loved your mother.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I believe he’s probably your father.”
“But?”
I think of his final warning.
“He has spent less than a week knowing you exist and already has plans for your life.”
Lucia looks toward the house.
The celebration remains visible through the windows.
Paper flowers.
Blue candles.
People carrying plates and gifts.
Her family.
Her choice.
“I’ll talk to him,” she says.
“I assumed.”
“You don’t get to stop me.”
“I know.”
She gives me a look.
“Sorry.”
A faint smile touches her mouth.
Then she notices the untouched piece of birthday cake near my chair.
“You didn’t eat it.”
“I was busy.”
She picks up the plate and holds it toward me.
“Eat.”
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
I take the cake.
Lucia sits across from me.
The glass rabbit rests between us, catching small fragments of color from the lowering sun.
Her anger hasn’t disappeared.
Neither has my guilt.
But when she looks at me now, she sees more than the man who put her in the car.
For today, that is enough.