Page 30 of Ricardo

“Julia,” my mother says again, softer this time.

I do not look at her.

My father’s gaze stays hard. “We raised you to understand the world you were born into.”

“No. You raised me to throw dinner parties.”

His expression does not change, but my mother’s does.

There. At least that landed somewhere.

I should stop, but I just can’t now that I’ve started.

“You raised me to smile while people asked questions they have no right to ask. You raised me to know which fork to use, which donors hate each other, which wives can’t sit together, which men need to feel interesting before they write a check. You raised me to be useful.”

My mother’s voice is quiet. “That is unfair.”

“Maybe.” I look at her then. “But it isn’t untrue.”

Her face tightens.

My father steps closer. “And now you believe the Contis are different?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to. You are working for them, spending time with Dante again, defending the position at dinner as if Mario Conti personally rescued you when you never even came to me.”

“I didn't want a job from you.”

His eyes narrow. “And why not?” he says, almost a warning in his tone. “I've awarded you every privilege in life, and you would throw it back at me like this?”

“Oh, don't be dramatic,” I say. “I didn't want a job from you because I wasn't interested in you looking over my shoulder, which I knew you would do. In fact, Conti Enterprises is probably one of the few places you couldn’t do that, which is why it’s perfect.”

“I always knew that Conti boy was a bad influence.”

My head snaps slightly toward him.

“And how did you make that jump?” I ask incredulously.

“He is trouble.”

“He is kind to me.”

“He has too much money and no supervision.”

“Which makes him no different than half the boys you’ve thrown at me my whole life, including Harrison.”

My father’s eyes flash. “Careful.”

“No,” I say, and the word surprises us both. “Dante has never been cruel to me. He has never used me. He has never made me feel stupid for trusting him. Which is more than I can say for Harrison Winthrop the damn third. So if you’re going to stand here and tell me Harrison was a better influence because his family has a cleaner image and better table manners, I’m not going to agree with you, because God knows their money isn’t cleaner and neither is ours.”

“Don’t you speak of our family that way,” my father says at the same time that my mother presses a hand to her chest and says, “No one said Harrison was perfect.”

I look at her.

Perfect.

That word, in this house, is almost funny.