"You've been in this house since you were ten," he continued, his voice growing colder. "The Family took you in. If we dissolve this, where the hell would you even go?"
Each sentence was sharper than the last, deliberately cutting, deliberately cruel.
"If you're not strong enough to walk away, then stop pretending to be," he finished. "Just stick to your role as Mrs. Falcone."
He didn't often lose his temper like this.
But when he did, there was nothing restrained about it.
He didn't stop until he had stripped me down to nothing in his eyes, until he had made it clear that without him, without the Falcone name, I was insignificant.
I didn't argue. I didn't defend myself.
I simply turned on the faucet and began washing my hands, the sound of running water filling the silence between us.
Behind me, I could feel his gaze lingering, heavy and unreadable.
Eventually, his tone shifted. Calmer. Colder. Detached.
"Salvatore Salvatore's tribute dinner is next week," he said. "Get something respectable and come with me."
It wasn't a request.
It was an order, delivered no differently than how he would speak to the soldiers who ran his errands.
The day of the tribute dinner arrived before I realized it.