I turned toward him.
“My inheritance had very little to do with it.”
His brows shifted almost imperceptibly.
“Your father said otherwise.”
“My father apparently says many things when he needs an agreement signed.”
For the first time, Niko looked genuinely interested.
“What did he tell you?”
“That I would lose everything if I refused.”
“And you believed him.”
“I believed his fear.”
The car slowed at an intersection.
Niko watched me for a moment, then looked forward again.
“That was your first sensible decision.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I said, “Do not mistake my presence in this car for trust.”
“I don’t.”
“Or obedience.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Or gratitude.”
“I have no use for gratitude.”
The answer was quiet.
It was also the first thing he said that sounded entirely honest.
The reception took place at Palazzo Santoro, an old villa on the western edge of the city. It stood behind iron gates and rows of cypress trees, built from sun-warmed stone with green shutters and balconies wrapped in jasmine.
