I lay there with my face in Laurana's hair and my reserves sitting at forty-one percent, which was more energy than I'd had at any single point in the last four days, and I thought about how profoundly fucked I was.
Not the good kind this time.
Sunday dinner with the man who killed my mother. Fourteen seats around a table he picked because there's no cover between the chairs and the windows. Wine he'll pour himself because control extends to the vintage. Conversation he'll steer toward the conclusion he's already written, because Vito D'Angelo has never in his life entered a room without knowing exactly how he planned to leave it.
I needed to be smarter than that.
I needed to be smarter than him.
