"I will."
We say goodbye. I hang up.
The phone feels heavy in my hand.
New York.
Business for the Sartoris.
I should ask someone. Pietro. Lorenzo. Someone who might know what my father is doing there.
But asking means admitting I don't trust him.
Asking means showing weakness.
And in this house, surrounded by people who already see me as nothing more than a transaction, I can't afford to look weak.
I set the phone down on my nightstand.
The room feels smaller than it did this morning.
I think about my father in some New York hotel room. Alone. Bored. With nothing but time and old habits whispering in his ear.
The only comfort is that Claudio is right.
Papa has no money.
The Sartoris took everything. The accounts. The business. The house, for all practical purposes.
He couldn't gamble if he wanted to.
Unless he finds someone willing to extend credit.
Unless he makes promises he can't keep.
Unless he does what he's always done—charm his way into debt and leave someone else to clean up the mess.
I press my palms against my eyes.
Stop.
I can't control this.
I can't control him.
I can't save him from himself.
But God, I wish I could.
A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts.
"Come in."
Giulia enters, her silver hair pulled back in its usual neat bun. She carries a tray with tea and small sandwiches.
"You missed lunch," she says. Not accusatory. Just stating fact.
I glance at the clock. Two-thirty.