Sixteen

JACK 

I stood up.

The chair scraped back against the marble. Skylark's pen stopped moving. Romano didn't look up from the table.

"Where are you going?"

His voice was calm. It always was.

"I'm spending the night here," I said.

I didn't wait for an answer. I turned and started walking.

The hall was quieter now. Most of the staff had cleared out. A few lingered near the doors, folding linens, stacking chairs. The chandeliers were still on but dimmed, and the whole room had the particular hush of a party that was over but not yet forgotten.

I was halfway to the corridor when I saw them.

Skylark. Leaning down. Her hand on the back of Romano's chair, her mouth close to his ear. She was talking low — quick, deliberate, the way she talked when she wanted something and didn't want anyone to hear her ask for it.

Romano nodded once.

Then he looked up.

"Son."

I stopped.

I didn't turn around. I just stood there, back to the table, hands at my sides, waiting for whatever he was about to say. I'd learned a long time ago not to give him my face unless I had to.

"We've found your mother."

The room went very still.

I turned.

Slowly. The way you turn when you already know what's coming and don't want to hear it.

Romano was still seated. His hands were folded on the table. His face was unreadable — the same flat, patient expression he wore when he was closing a deal or ending a conversation.

Skylark had stepped back. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the floor, her pen still in her hand, her lips pressed together like she was trying very hard not to smile.

I looked at my father.

"Where?"

He didn't answer.

He just sat there, hands folded, watching me the way he always watched me — like I was a document he'd already read and was waiting for me to catch up to.

The chandeliers hummed above us.

Nobody in the room moved.

And I stood there, in the middle of my father's house, with my back to the door and my mother's name hanging in the air between us, and I understood that whatever came next was going to cost me something.

I just didn't know what yet.

Romano tilted his head.

" Sit down, Jack."

It wasn't a request.

JACK 

I walked back to the table.

Slowly. I didn't look at Skylark. I didn't look at my father. I just pulled the chair out and sat down, hands flat on the table, eyes on the marble in front of me.

Romano waited until I was settled.

Then he spoke.

"Your mother's health is deteriorating."

The words landed the way they always did when he delivered news — flat, measured, like he was reading from a report he'd prepared hours ago and was now just delivering out of obligation.

"The medication isn't holding anymore. The dosage keeps climbing. Her body's starting to reject it."

He paused. Not for effect. Just to take a sip of water.

"The doctors are recommending we put her under. A medically induced coma. To sustain her. Stop her from overdosing on the treatment itself."

I didn't say anything.

Beside me, Skylark made a small sound — a soft inhale, the kind someone makes when they want to be seen making it. She reached across the table and rested her hand near Romano's, just close enough that it almost touched.

"That's terrible," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry, Jack."

I didn't look at her.

Romano didn't either.

His voice stayed exactly the same. Same pace. Same tone. Like he was discussing a legal filing. Like the woman in that room — the woman who used to hum in the kitchen, the woman who used to tuck me in, the woman whose eyes went empty one day and never came back — was a name on a page.

"So," he said. "What do you think?"

I didn't answer.

"The doctors need a decision. Soon. I'd like your opinion before I make the call."

My mother.

His wife.

And he's asking me like it's a vote.

The chandelier above the table hummed. Somewhere behind me, a staff member set down a tray. The clink of glass against wood sounded like it was coming from another house.

Skylark shifted in her chair. She was watching me now — not Romano. Calculating. Filing. I could feel her doing it without looking at her.

My hands were flat on the table. I could feel the grain of the marble under my palms. I could feel my own pulse in my fingertips.

I tightened my grip on the edge of the chair.

Not fast. Not loud. Just a slow, steady pressure — knuckles going pale, the wood creaking once under my hand.

I looked up at him.

"If there's going to be a wedding," I said, "she'll attend."

The room went quiet.

Skylark rolled her eyes. She didn't even try to hide it.

Romano's gaze didn't move. But something behind it did — a flicker, small and cold, the way ice moves under a surface before it cracks.

"What do you mean by that?"

I held his eyes.

I didn't answer.

Romano set his glass down. Slowly. Precisely. The same way he did everything.

"You're negotiating," he said.

"I'm stating a condition."

"A condition." He repeated the word like he was tasting it. "For what?"

"For the wedding."

Skylark laughed — short, dry, one note. She looked at Romano.

"He's joking."

I didn't look at her.

Romano didn't either. He was still watching me, and I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He wasn't angry. He was interested. That was worse. When Romano got angry, it was simple — a punishment, a consequence, a door closing. When he got interested, it meant he'd found something in you worth using.

"Your mother isn't well enough to attend a wedding," he said.

"Then we wait until she is."

"She may never be."

"Then we wait until she is."

The words sat between us.

Skylark looked from me to Romano, then back to me.

"Jack." Her voice was light but the edge was there. "This is ridiculous. The wedding date is set. The arrangements are made. We can't just—"

"Then move it."

She blinked.

"What?"

"Move the date."

"He can't just—" She turned to Romano. "Father-in-law, tell him."

Romano didn't speak.

He was still watching me. His hands were folded on the table. His shoulders were relaxed. He looked, for all the world, like a man enjoying a conversation he hadn't expected to enjoy.

"You've never asked me for anything," he said. "Not once. Not since you were a boy."

I didn't answer.

"You asked for a car when you were seventeen. That was the last time."

"That wasn't a request."

"No." A small breath of something almost like amusement. "It wasn't."

Skylark was looking between us faster now, sensing she'd lost the room and not yet understanding how.

"So you're asking me," Romano said. "Now. For her."

"I'm not asking."

"No." He nodded slowly. "You're not."

He picked up his glass and took another sip. He set it down. He straightened the napkin beside his plate. Every gesture small and deliberate, and every one of them a message: I am still deciding, and you will wait until I do.

"Fine," he said.

Skylark's head snapped toward him.

"What?"

"The wedding will be delayed." He looked at her. "By two weeks. Three, perhaps."

"Romano—"

"I've made the decision."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her hand tightened around her pen.

Romano looked back at me.

"Your mother will attend," he said. "You'll have that."

He let the words settle.

"And then we'll talk about what it costs."

He stood. Pushed his chair in. Straightened his jacket. The staff near the door stood straighter as he passed.

Skylark stayed seated for a moment longer, staring at the empty head of the table like she was trying to figure out what had just happened to her evening. Then she looked at me.

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her face said all of it — you'll pay for this, and I'll make sure you do.

She stood and walked out.

I stayed where I was.

The room was empty now. Just me and the dimmed chandeliers and the cold marble under my hands.

I let go of the chair. Slowly. My knuckles were still white.

I thought about my mother. The way she used to hum. The way she used to laugh. The way she looked the last time I visited her — small in that bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes open but not seeing anything.

And I thought about what Romano had just said.

And then we'll talk about what it costs.

I stood up.

I had a wedding to delay.

And a mother to save.

And no idea — not one — what the man in the dark room had to do with any of it.