I’m bracing for her to tear into me and defend her son.
Instead, Gianna’s expression turns from stern to something that might almost be…wait, is thatapproval?
“Good,” she says, nodding once. “You have fire. I was worried Leonardo had chosen some wilting flower who would cry all day and need constant reassurance.”
What the fuck?
She sits in one of the armchairs like she’s settling in for tea, crossing her legs elegantly and folding her hands in her lap.
I remain standing, unsure what to do with this strange turn of events.
“Chosen?” I repeat, latching onto that word. “He didn’tchooseme. He kidnapped me because of my father.”
“Did he?” Gianna’s eyes are sharp. “Tell me, Emma Brennan, what do you think of my Leo?”
The question is so unexpected, so strange given the circumstances, that I blurt out my actual feelings before I can stop myself.
“I think he’s an asshole.”
The words hang in the air and I immediately wince, expecting her to explode.
I just called her son an asshole to his mother’s face.
The mother who lost her youngest son to my father’s bullet.
But Gianna doesn’t explode.
She doesn’t even look particularly offended.
Instead, she nods thoughtfully, like I’ve just confirmed something she already suspected.
“Yes,” she agrees, surprising me. “He can be. Especially when he thinks he is being honorable or protecting someone. He gets that from his father, you see, the stubborn conviction that he knows best.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just stand there awkwardly while Gianna studies me like I’m a painting she’s considering purchasing.
“Sit,” she commands, gesturing to the chair across from her. From her tone, she expects me to obey.
I sit slowly, perching on the edge of the chair like I might need to run at any moment while Gianna looks me up and down.
I feel like I’m getting an X-ray but I refuse to cower or make myself smaller.
Instead, I stare her down defiantly.
“You are not what I expected,” Gianna says after a long moment of scrutiny.
“What did you expect?” My curiosity gets the better of me.
“Someone weaker,” Gianna replies bluntly, rolling her pearl necklace around her fingers. “Someone broken by what Leonardo has done. Connor Brennan’s precious daughter, raised in luxury, unused to hardship. A porcelain doll who would shatter under pressure.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” I’m unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
Gianna looks puzzled before her features smooth out. “You misunderstand,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “I am not disappointed. I am…intrigued. You have spine, Emma. You fight back. You do not crumble. This is good.”
“Good for who?” I ask suspiciously.
Gianna’s lips curve into something that might be a smile. “That is the question, isn’t it?”
The cryptic response frustrates me. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”