Chapter 12 #3
He set the glass down and stepped closer, enough to make the next words feel more personal than our business required.
“Tell Alessandro I’m curious to see what you become once they stop sending you back to finish essays.”
I thought of Emily then, of the essay still half-written on my laptop, of the silence she left behind in my apartment.
The timing was unwelcome enough that I resented the reminder, which only made it worse.
Pietro Benetti resenting the thought of a woman was the least useful thing he could possibly do with the next thirty seconds of his life.
“He won’t have to wait long.”
“No,” Doyle agreed. “I don’t think he will.”
We shook on it a minute later, and even as I turned to leave, I could feel his eyes still on me, assessing, recalibrating, filing away whatever use the future might have for a man like me.
By the time Olivero and I stepped back into the corridor, I knew the deal would hold.
Once we were back in the car, I pulled out my phone and sent my father a text.
Found plan B for port issue. Can be rerouted through Doyle. He agreed to three percent value and reciprocity.
Less than five seconds later, my phone started ringing.
Olivero glanced at the screen and gave a low whistle. “Well. It was nice knowing you.”
I answered. “Good evening, Father.”
“You are very lucky,” Alessandro said, his voice low and dangerous, “that I have just finished reading the most tedious story in human history to get your sister to sleep and therefore cannot shout. Tell me this is a joke.”
“It’s not.”
A beat of silence followed.
Then, very distinctly, “No?”
“No.”
“I see.” His tone remained calm, which was always more dangerous. “And why—and I really cannot stress this enough—the fuck did you go to see Doyle without speaking to me first?”
Olivero turned toward the window, shoulders shaking once with suppressed laughter.
I ignored him.
“Because the Jersey issue isn’t going away,” I said. “Because rerouting through Doyle gives us a controlled pressure release without escalating too quickly. Because I knew you’d say no if I asked permission first.”
“Of course I would have said no.”
“Yes.”
“And that did not stop you.”
“No.”
My father exhaled sharply. “You are becoming profoundly inconvenient.”
“I learned from the best.”
That got more silence.
Then, in a mutter meant more for himself than for me, “It is a terrible thing to have a son exactly like his father.”
I leaned back in my seat. “You know that’s an insult to yourself, don’t you?”
“I do, yes.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth shifted.
He was quiet, then asked, more evenly now, “What did Doyle say?”
So I told him. The percentage. The trial run. The logic. The fallback if Jersey escalated instead of settling.
By the time I finished, the anger in his silence had become more thoughtful.
Finally he said, “You negotiated that yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And he agreed?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Three percent is satisfactory.”
That, from Alessandro Benetti, was practically effusive praise.
Olivero heard it too. His brows lifted a fraction.
My father sighed. “You should have called me first.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still going to finish your degree before you come back here and start behaving like a problem full-time.”
“I’m aware.”
“Good.” His voice softened by a degree that most men would have missed. “I am proud of you, Pietro.”
The words landed with their usual force.
They always would.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t make me repeat it. You’ll ruin the moment.”
“Perish the thought.”
He let out something that might once have been a laugh. “Go home. I’ll speak to Doyle tomorrow and formalize it. And if you do anything else behind my back tonight, at least try to make it less interesting for the people who report to me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That is exactly what worries me.”
The call ended a minute later, just as we turned onto my street.
Olivero put the car in park and glanced toward me. “You’re disturbingly alive.”
“He loves me.”
“He does. Deeply enough to kill anyone else for less.”
I reached for the door handle, then stopped.
Emily was there.
Sitting in the main hall on one of the low sofas near the entrance, hands clasped too tightly in her lap, looking like she had been debating every second of being there since she arrived.
The doorman stood nearby pretending not to watch her while very obviously doing so.
She looked up the moment the headlights shifted across the glass, and even through the distance I felt the force of it hit me straight in the chest.
I couldn’t move.
Olivero followed my line of sight and muttered, “I’ll be sleeping in the car, won’t I?”
My hand was already reaching for my wallet, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
“If everything goes the way I hope,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off her, “yes.”
He turned to look at me. “You know what? No. I’m getting a room at the best hotel in town.”
I held out my card without glancing at him. “Fine. Take it. Enjoy yourself.”
He took the card, then snorted under his breath. “Pathetic.”
“Accurate.”
I was already out of the car before he could answer.