“He is my husband.”
“He is a Santoro.”
“You arranged that.”
“I arranged protection.”
“From what?”
The question left the room bare.
My father looked at me.
His mouth opened.
Then the door handle moved.
Arthur stepped back as Niko entered.
He closed the door behind him.
“No one invited you,” my father said.
“This is my house.”
“This is a private conversation.”
“With my wife.”
The word settled between them.
My father’s face lost color.
Niko noticed.
So did I.
“I was leaving,” Arthur said.
“No,” I replied.
Both men looked at me.
I stood between them, still wearing the heavy satin dress chosen by strangers and a ring that felt too new against my skin.
“You are going to tell me what this is,” I said. “Both of you. No more sealed envelopes. No more conversations behind doors. What am I being protected from?”
Arthur’s gaze dropped.
