Chapter 8
Luca called me himself.
Midmorning.
No blocked number.
No intermediary.
Confidence returning.
“Dominic.”
“Luca.”
“I hear your perfume party went badly.”
I looked at Valeria.
She closed her eyes.
“You hear a lot.”
“You keep loud company.”
I almost smiled.
“Why did you want the ledger burned?”
Silence.
Small.
Enough.
Then he laughed.
“Old recipes?”
“Your father traded two corridors for your life.”
The silence changed.
Not surprise.
Pain.
He knew.
Everything shifted.
“You knew.”
His voice hardened.
“Careful.”
“You knew exactly why the corridors changed hands.”
No answer.
Margaret stared at me.
Valeria too.
All these years, Luca had not believed a lie.
He had protected one.
“Your father chose you.”
I spoke slowly.
“And you turned his choice into theft because admitting he loved you more than territory made him look weak.”
Luca’s breathing sharpened.
There.
The wound.
“You know nothing about my father.”
“I know enough.”
He hung up.
Valeria whispered:
“He told me he never knew.”
“He lied.”
She looked destroyed.
Good.
Not because pain pleased me.
Because every excuse she built around helping him had just collapsed.
Lucian looked less surprised.
I noticed.
“You knew too.”
He shrugged.
“Suspected.”
“Why help him?”
Lucian smiled bitterly.
“Because truth doesn’t change opportunity.”
At least he had stopped pretending morality.
The Knox family wanted Caradonna influence.
Luca wanted old territory.
Valeria wanted me.
Three motives.
One plan.
That made more sense than a single grand conspiracy.
Real betrayal is usually cooperation between people who want different rewards.
I looked at Lucian.
“What did you expect after I married her?”
“Board access.”
Not corporate.
Family board.
The informal table where we assigned legitimate ventures and territory management.
Lucian wanted a permanent chair.
Valeria would advocate for him.
Then Luca would demand eastern corridor restitution.
My captains would split.
The Knox siblings would offer mediation.
And I would be pressured to compromise to preserve my marriage.
Elegant.
I looked at Valeria.
“Were you going to ask me?”
She whispered:
“I thought I could make you see it as peace.”
There.
Not conquest.
Peace.
Always a prettier word.
I took off the engagement ring I wore on a chain beneath my shirt—the ring my father used to wear before I inherited the signet.
May you like
Placed it on the desk.
“Peace that begins with deception is surrender wearing perfume.”
