He did not press the matter further. Instead he let his gaze travel over me, slow and proprietary, the way a man appraises a possession he has grown careless with. The study smelled of Turkish tobacco and old leather, and somewhere behind the paneled walls a grandfather clock kept its patient count.
"Go put on your face and make yourself ready," he said. "Tonight is Gia's birthday. I've had a private room set aside at Omega Hall."
He paused, rolling the heavy signet ring around his finger with an idle, unhurried motion. "Light touch only. Don't outshine the girl of the hour."
The words came out of me without thought, flat as spilled water. "I haven't the time. Go without me."
Lorenzo's frown carved itself deeper. "Gia has already told everyone in her circle that her brother and his wife are hosting the evening for her. If you fail to appear, where does that leave her standing in front of the whole Family?"
He went on, and each sentence landed like a coin dropped on marble. "I know you resent her. Her youth. That she can carry a child when you cannot. But a barren womb is no fault of Gia's. Is it worth it, this endless war you wage against a girl half your temper? Here is the arrangement. Tonight you go and you smile and you honor her birthday. And another day I will grant you one wish. Name any territory in the world you'd like to see, and I'll take you there."
I said nothing for a long moment. Beneath the table my thumb found the bare skin where a ring should have sat, and I turned that empty finger slowly, tracing the ghost of the thing I had already removed. Then I caught myself doing it, and I stopped. The stillness that followed was my own, private verdict.
I smiled. "Alright."
That evening I painted my face into something merciless and beautiful, a mask worthy of the war I no longer intended to fight, and I walked into the private room at Omega Hall precisely on time. The chandeliers threw gold across the obsidian floor. The moment Lorenzo saw me, something in his composure slipped its leash. He crossed the room and took my hand in his, as though the sight of me had reminded him, for one dangerous instant, of what he'd bargained away.
Gia's expression flickered like a candle in a draft, there and then smoothed over. She recovered her poise and paraded me before her friends with the bright confidence of a made woman who believes her place secure. Her lover from the other territory, the one who came and went and quarreled with her across the distance, lounged in the far corner with a cigarette burning down between two fingers, watching all of it through a veil of smoke.
A waiter wheeled in the three-tiered cake Lorenzo had commissioned, and the candlelight turned the whole room into something warm and false. Gia clasped her hands and made her wish, her smile arranged into the serene mask of a princess who had never once known hunger.
"Since I came to Duskmire, my brother and his wife have kept me under their protection and wanted for nothing. My greatest wish is that we remain famiglia, always, the three of us together, my brother and his wife and—"
She never reached the end of it.
My bag slipped from my fingers and struck the floor, and from its mouth a single folded paper slid free across the polished stone.
Lorenzo bent and retrieved it for me out of instinct, the courtesy of a man reaching for his wife's fallen thing. Then his eyes found the words printed at the top of the page. Post-Miscarriage Care Instructions. The color drained from his face as though someone had opened a vein. His hand went still on the signet ring. Utterly, terribly still.
"Adriana," he said, and his voice had gone quiet in the way that emptied rooms. "What is this?"
