Chapter 3

Vincent's private family doctor was named Enzo. An old man, careful in a way that made you uneasy.

He came to see Vincent while I was in the next room going over new proposals for the smuggling routes.

I didn't hear what they said.

But I knew the moment Vincent called me in that something was off.

There was a document on his desk. He didn't tell me to sit. He just slid it across.

"Elena. Explain."

I glanced down.

It was a record of every medical visit I'd made outside the family's system over the past three years. Clinic addresses. Dates. Departments. All laid out.

"Routine checkups," I said.

"Routine checkups." Vincent repeated the words, his voice even. "The Maro family has six specialists on retainer. Why are you going outside?"

I didn't answer.

He stood up, came around the desk, flipped to the second page of the record, and pointed at a line.

A date from four years ago.

I'd gone twice that week. The clinic was down by the docks, nowhere anyone was watching. I'd thought I was careful enough.

I'd thought.

Vincent stared at me and said, slowly, "OB-GYN. Same clinic. Twice, seventy-two hours apart."

He paused.

"That week, you told me you were tracking the books on the arms shipment."

I stood there. Didn't move.

"You've never had a child," he said. "I thought it was luck."

He closed the record and set it down on the desk.

"Turns out it wasn't luck."

His voice was very low. But I could hear it — not grief. The anger of a man who'd had his authority stepped over.

"Elena. Do you have any idea what you've done? The heir to the Maro family — that's my call, not yours."

"You went around me. You made that decision yourself."

I still didn't speak.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

He swept the stack of documents off the desk. They hit the floor in a scatter of paper.

I looked down at them. I didn't bend to pick them up.

Vincent walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, turned back to look at me one last time.

"I'll make sure you understand — without my permission, you don't do anything."

The door slammed. His footsteps faded down the hall.

I stood there looking at the door, still trembling faintly on its hinges, and suddenly I was remembering.

The first family dinner, when I was fifteen. Vincent had taken my hand and said to the whole room: "This is Elena. She's mine. You touch her, you touch me."

The first job I ever closed alone, when I was sixteen. Vincent had announced it, proud: "From today on, Elena has all of my authority. Her orders are my orders."

When I was eighteen, he proposed. "As long as you're with me, you have the right to be as difficult as you want. I'll always love you."

I bent down and gathered the papers one by one, put them back on the desk in order.

Then I went back to my own study and opened my encrypted inbox.

The partner at the law firm had sent an update overnight. The document revoking all my family authorizations had entered the final verification stage.

One last step. Then I could leave for good. Start over somewhere else. Actually live.

I shut the laptop, leaned back in the chair, and started thinking about what I'd do after.

Then Vincent walked in. He didn't knock. Or rather — he never knocked.

"Elena." He came to stand in front of me and looked down.

I stayed in the chair. Didn't stand up, didn't look up, didn't answer.

About five seconds of silence.

"Abortion. Long-acting contraceptives." His voice. "A dog that won't obey — what's the point of keeping it?"

"Then don't keep it," I said.

He reached out, took my chin, and tilted my face up.

He forced me to look at him, and then he looked at me for a long time. Then he laughed softly. "You really think you can walk away?"

"The arms deal signing dinner, two days from now. Don't screw it up for me."

He turned and walked out. At the door he paused, glanced sideways at me, his eyes tracking down my face.

"And dress well. Don't embarrass the Maros."