Finally, he stepped back, loosening his tie as he moved to the window she'd stood at earlier.
"My mother," he said, his voice carefully controlled, "was Claire Ashworth Valentino. American. Beautiful. Kind. She met my father when she was twenty-two, on vacation in Rome. He was thirty-five, already a made man, already dangerous." He stared out at the city. "She didn't know what he was. Not at first. By the time she understood, she was pregnant with me, and she loved him enough to convince herself she could handle it."
Eve stayed silent, giving him space.
"They married. She moved to Italy. Had me. And for eight years, she tried to be the wife my father wanted....obedient, quiet, the perfect mafia princess." His jaw clenched. "But she wasn't built for that world. She was soft. Gentle. She collected bird books and taught me all their names. She cried when my father brought business home, when there was blood on his hands, when men screamed in the basement."
"Dimitri...."
