Chapter 3
Leo needed no serious treatment.
Bruising.
Strain.
Nothing more.
That mattered.
I would not exaggerate my child’s pain to justify what came next.
The facts were enough.
I sat beside his bed later that night.
Mia had fallen asleep sideways at the foot of it.
Leo stared at the ceiling.
“What did Nolan mean?”
“What part?”
“When he said I needed to learn.”
I hated that question.
Children should not have to translate adult ambition.
But lying creates worse inheritance.
“He thinks one day Bellandi should belong to him.”
Leo frowned.
“Because he’s older?”
“No.”
“Because he’s a man?”
There.
Twelve years old.
Already understood.
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Does it?”
“No.”
Simple.
Then:
“Does it belong to me?”
Better question.
“No.”
He seemed surprised.
“Then who?”
“No one automatically.”
I brushed grass from his hair.
“You grow up first.”
Good.
Children do not need crowns before puberty.
The next morning, I questioned Nolan privately.
No capos.
No Victor.
He sat across from me with a swollen lip and an ego still worse off.
“Did your father tell you to hurt Leo?”
“No.”
I believed him.
“Then what did he tell you?”
Nolan looked away.
“That Leo gets treated like a prince.”
Interesting.
“He said if nobody corrected him, the family would assume he was next.”
Leo.
Twelve.
Victor had already made him political.
“What about Mia?”
“She grabbed me.”
“So you shoved an eight-year-old.”
His face tightened.
No defense sounded good aloud.
“What were you trying to teach Leo?”
He hesitated.
“Respect.”
There it was.
The favorite word of men who mean hierarchy.
“Whose?”
No answer.
“Yours?”
Silence.
“Victor’s?”
Longer.
Then:
“Men’s.”
Finally.
Not sophisticated.
But honest.
I leaned back.
“Your father taught you that?”
Nolan shook his head too quickly.
Meaning yes.
Not directly.
Never one lecture.
Small comments.
Women are good with money.
Women calm disputes.
Women host.
Men inherit risk.
Men make final calls.
Men protect.
Men decide.
Victor had spent decades turning prejudice into background noise.
Nolan simply acted on it physically.
I looked at him.
“You didn’t create this.”
Hope entered his face.
I finished:
“But you chose it.”
May you like
Hope disappeared.
Good.
