Page 288 of Ricardo

No title.

No flourish.

Roberto smiles faintly. “We appreciate you receiving us on short notice.”

Diego’s mouth curves without humor. “I have to admit, we were surprised by the response.”

Roberto looks at him. “We thought the situation warranted something a little more personal than a message.”

Adrian does not speak. His attention moves through the room, the doors, the glass, the positions of our people outside. He does it easily, without insult, but every guard near the door becomes aware of being assessed.

I respect it.

I dislike it.

Mario gestures toward the table. “Please.”

Vito does not sit immediately.

He looks at me first.

There is no hesitation in his gaze, no feigning uncertainty while he places me. He knows exactly who I am. Ricardo Conti. Francis’s second son. Dante’s father. The man whose son bled last night because an American political heir tried to reclaim a woman by force. My woman.

But there is another truth, one he does not know.

Luca is Francis’s son too. His eldest. Taken from him before knew he existed and raised by Francis’s brother, Elio.

In truth, Luca is my brother.

And now, Vito stands in front of me as Luca’s heir, and some private part of me thinks: nephew.

Then I bury the thought where it belongs.

Knowledge is not the same as permission. Francis gave Mario that truth before he died, and he gave it like a blade with no handle. Tactless and harmful.

Luca does not know. Vito does not know. Roberto does not know. No one from Atlantic City knows.

And this isn't the time to tell them.

So I meet Vito’s eyes and give him only what I am allowed.

“Thank you for coming.”

His gaze holds mine. “Your son is alive?”

He asked the question without any softness, without preamble

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Just one word.

Somehow, it does more than sympathy would have.

Roberto’s expression gentles by a fraction. “Luca asked us to convey that your family has his concern.”

Mario’s voice remains steady. “His concern is acknowledged.”