Chapter 20
PIETRO
Being a sort-of genius had its advantages, especially during exam season.
It was useful, for example, to have the kind of brain that could absorb an unreasonable amount of information quickly, because for the past few days my attention had been split between studying for my International Trade Policy exam, getting ready to go home for Christmas, and trying to find a way to convince Emily to come with me without sounding like a man on the verge of proposing marriage.
Unfortunately, even a high IQ had its limits. Concentrating on tariff structures was not easy when all I could think about was Emily Hart and the increasingly dangerous possibility that I wanted every future Christmas of my life to involve her.
By the time I stepped out of class, phone already in hand, I had a text from my father.
Call me.
That was never a relaxing instruction.
I called him immediately.
He answered on the second ring.
“So,” he said, without bothering with a greeting, “I went to Gianni today to pick up your mother’s Christmas present.”
I frowned slightly as I started down the stone steps outside the building. “I see.”
“And apparently,” he continued, his tone indicating he was enjoying himself far too much, “he was just about to call you.”
I stopped walking.
“The custom engagement ring you ordered,” my father said, “will be ready in time for Christmas.”
For one rare and inconvenient second, I had no answer at all.
Around me, students passed by in clusters, laughing too loudly, half frozen in the December air, unaware that my father had just reached into my life and pulled one of its most private intentions straight into the open.
Finally I croaked, “You had no business knowing that.”
“No,” he agreed. “And yet I do.”
I started walking again, slower now. “How?”
“He asked a question about timing. I answered it. Then he made the mistake of looking pleased with himself, so naturally I became curious.”
“That is not curiosity. That is interference.”
“That is fatherhood.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “I was not aware those were synonyms.”
“With sons like mine, they are.”
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth moved.
The ring.
I ordered it weeks ago, before Chicago, before Seattle. I had not examined the impulse too closely. I only knew I wanted it ready, the possibility in my hands when the moment came, because I was already certain there would be no one else.
My father was silent, then asked, much more quietly, “You decided.”
It was not a question.
“I did.”
Another silence followed.
“Did you make peace with the life you’ll be leading?”
That stopped me much more effectively than the mention of the ring had.
I knew what he meant. Not marriage in the abstract.
Not love. The actual life. The one beneath the tailored suits and family dinners and beautiful houses.
The blood. The secrets. The compromises I would one day make and the damage they would leave behind no matter how carefully I tried to contain them.
I kept walking, one hand tightening around my phone. “I made peace with wanting her in it,” I said at last. “I’m still working on the rest.”
My father let that sit between us for a few beats before answering. “That is at least honest.”
“It is the best I have.”
“And does she know?”
“No.”
“Will she come home with you for Christmas?”
That question hit exactly where I was least steady.
“I’m trying.”
He exhaled slowly. “Try harder. Your mother has already instructed half the staff to prepare as if she is.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Of course she has.”
“She bought extra ornaments.”
“Dad.”
“I am simply informing you of the scale of the operation.”
That dragged an unwilling laugh out of me, but it faded quickly enough.
Because beneath all of it, his question stayed.
Had I made peace with the life I would be leading?
If someone asked me in July, I would have said of course.
I was born to be the heir. But now there was a beautiful woman in the equation, and I was no longer quite so certain.
Perhaps no decent man ever truly made peace with it, not fully.
What I had made peace with was this: if there was any future worth carrying the uglier parts of my world for, it would have her in it.
“The ring is not a way to trap her,” I said after a while. “It’s a choice I’m preparing to offer if she ever reaches that point with me.”
“I know,” he said, and there was no teasing in his voice now. “If I thought otherwise, this would be a very different conversation.”
“I’m not even sure I’ll ask at Christmas,” I admitted. “I know I’m ready. I know the decision is made on my side. I’m just not sure she’s there yet.”
“Good,” he said. “Because if you do this, you will do it properly. Not because you are afraid to lose her if you wait, and not because you cannot bear wanting something without taking it at once.”
“That isn’t what this is.”
“No,” he said, adding after the briefest pause, “Matteo knows.”
I had reached the car by then, but I stayed outside it, one hand resting on the roof while the cold air bit my lungs.
Matteo. I had always known it would reach him eventually, and after Chicago and Seattle I had more confidence that Emily could face him without running, but there was always risk where Matteo Genovese was concerned. Risk was half his charm and most of his damage.
“Do I need to worry?”
My father let out a laugh that carried more weariness than amusement.
“With Genovese? Always. But I bought you a little time and a little leniency. He is quite impressed with the deal you made with Doyle. Called it clever. Risky, but clever. And much as I dislike admitting it, Matteo enjoys exactly that kind of stupid move.”
“Why do you insist on insulting and complimenting me in the same sentence? It’s a skill, truly.”
“You’ll understand when you and your Emily have a child.”
That caught me off guard. For one brief, dangerous second, an image flashed through my mind uninvited: Emily, laughing, a baby in her arms, my mother crying somewhere in the background while pretending she wasn’t.
Not yet, of course. Not even close. But the thought alone warmed something in me I wasn’t prepared to examine.
“And do you know what you’ll get from me when that child drives you insane?” my father continued.
“Love and compassion?” I asked.
“You’ll get a drink in my office and the pleasure of hearing me say I warned you.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “She is made for me, Dad. She truly is.”
He said nothing and I thought the call had dropped.
“Nothing to say?” I asked.
“Oh, now you want my wisdom.”
“Not particularly, but I also don’t want you to give yourself an aneurysm from holding your tongue.”
His answer came back calm enough to be irritating.
“She may be made for you,” he said. “The real question is whether you are made for her.”
I had walked directly into that one.
“Well,” I said, opening the car door, “it was nice talking to you, Dad. I’ll speak to you later.”
I hung up before he could add anything else and stood there for a moment longer with the phone still in my hand, staring at nothing.
Was I made for her? If I wasn't yet, I would become the man who was.
Tonight I was taking her to dinner to celebrate the end of exams and, if everything went well, finally ask her to come home with me for Christmas.
It was less than a week away, and while I had circled the subject often enough in the past few days, dropping hints here and there, I had yet to make the offer properly. That would happen tonight.
I considered calling her as I got ready, then decided against it on the grounds that even I had to admit there was a limit to how pathetic I ought to allow myself to become where Emily was concerned.
She had kicked me out of her apartment the night before, insisting she needed to study and that I was making concentration impossible.
I had pointed out that I slept perfectly well beside her, and she had replied, with irritating accuracy, that we had done very little sleeping.
The memory still made me grin like an idiot as I stepped into the restaurant, the staff greeting me by name.
That was not unusual.
I had chosen the place carefully. I knew Emily liked beauty when it felt thoughtful rather than excessive. Candlelight. Warm wood. Good wine. Enough privacy to talk without feeling watched.
I was rehearsing arguments in my head while I waited.
The one about my mother already buying extra ornaments and Victoria threatening to revolt if Emily did not come.
The one about wanting her there for selfish reasons too, because Christmas in that house had never once mattered to me as much as it did now that I could imagine her in it.
She was late.
That, in itself, meant nothing to most men.
To me, it did.
Emily was not habitually late. Moreover, she had opinions about lateness. I had once listened to her explain for ten full minutes that being late to things was not a personality trait but an act of disrespect, and while I found the speech deeply endearing, I had also taken the point.
I checked the time again.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text.
I’m not coming. I’m sorry. It’s all going too fast and I need space and time. I’m going away for now. Please don’t call.
Everything in me went cold.
Not because of the content.
Because of the message.
Too flat. Too generic. Too clumsy. Emily did not say “space and time” like she was writing bad dialogue for someone else’s breakup.
She did not say “going away for now” like a woman vanishing into fog.
And if she wanted distance, she would never text it from the middle of a planned dinner after letting me sit down first. She would face me.
Shake if she had to. Cry, perhaps. But face me.
I called her immediately.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
The third time went straight to voicemail.
I stood too fast, my leg protesting sharply enough to make me catch myself on the edge of the table before I reached for my cane. I threw a few bills down without looking at the amount and headed for the door.