Chapter 9
Camilla listened to the recording twice.
The second time hurt her more.
I could see it.
She had convinced herself she was punishing me, forcing me to understand what separation felt like, maybe even forcing me to become more present for Sophia.
Lucia had been building a coup.
“You knew about the harbor,” I said.
Camilla looked at me.
“Yes.”
“You gave her Sophia’s schedule.”
“Yes.”
“You helped pack her room.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
No excuse this time.
Good.
Then she said, “I didn’t know she was taking your chair.”
I stared at her.
“You thought using our daughter was acceptable if she only took the harbor?”
Camilla’s face collapsed.
That was the problem with partial morality.
It feels clean only until somebody says the whole sentence.
Grant tried to interrupt.
I ignored him.
The recorder continued. Lucia spoke about six old captains, two coastal crews, and a new structure where I would remain the visible head while decisions flowed through the Inner Table.
A decorative boss.
A family face.
Nothing more.
Marco looked at me.
“Same thing Lorenzo tried before you took over.”
“Yes.”
My father used brute force.
Lucia used family.
Better disguise.
Same hunger.
Then another sound came through the recording.
Sophia’s voice.
Tiny.
Close to the device.
“What’s chair?”
Everything in the room stopped.
The adults on the recording went silent.
Then Lucia laughed.
“A grown-up thing.”
Sophia asked, “Daddy’s chair?”
Another silence.
Then Camilla’s voice:
“Go play, sweetheart.”
The recording ended shortly after.
Grant had not searched Sophia’s bedroom because the child knew too much.
He searched it because the child had accidentally recorded too much.
The three-day enclosure had been punishment.
But it had also been interrogation.
They were waiting for Sophia to tell them whether she still had the recorder.
She never did.
Because she did not know it mattered.
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A three-year-old survived their questions simply because she could not give them an answer she did not understand.
And they punished her for that too.
