Page 245 of Caterina
I matter. My work matters. My mind matters.
And I am done waiting for someone else to notice.
I stop outside Papà’s office only long enough to take one deep breath.
Then I open the door and walk in.
“I need to talk to you.”
Papà looks up from behind his desk.
For one second, that is all I see. My father in his chair, dark eyes, face lined with more strain than he would ever admit. He looks tired. He looks older than he did a week ago.
Then I realize he is not alone.
Giovanni is seated near the windows, one ankle crossed over his knee, expression sharp and unreadable. Antonio stands beside the sideboard with a coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. Roberto is in one of the chairs facing the desk, a folder open in his lap.
All three of my uncles look at me.
So does Papà.
My confidence stutters.
I did not expect an audience. Especially not this audience.
For one horrible second, I feel twelve years old again, walking into a room where the men were talking, and I feel like I interrupted something important.
Then I think of Adrian in a hospital bed. A tube down his throat while a machine breathes for him.
I think of the small life inside me that nobody in this room knows about yet.
No, not this time.
I close the door behind me.
“Good,” I say, even though my heart is suddenly beating too fast. “You should all hear this.”
Antonio lowers his phone. “Hear what?”
I cross to the table in the middle of the room and set my laptop down without asking permission.
Papà’s brows lift slightly.
I open the screen, connect to the display on the wall, and pull up the first file before anyone can tell me to slow down, sit down, calm down, rest, or any other word men like to use on women.
“I know who’s behind the attacks,” I say.
No one gasps or jumps. No one starts asking questions all at once.
I guess I didn’t expect them to, but I would have liked more of a reaction.
I guess I’ll settle for Papà’s gaze sharpening, Giovanni uncrossing his ankle, Roberto closing the folder, and Antonio putting down his coffee.
Whatever.
Papà looks at me for a long moment. “Caterina.”
“No.” I hold up one hand. “Not yet. You need to let me talk first.”
