Page 3 of Crown Of Blood
“Nicole is better at everything than me,” I tell her. “Except stories.”
“Except stories,” she agrees, gracious in victory, and settles back, arms full of rabbit.
I could pretend I’m tired, or busy, or something else that matters, but my daughter likes me better than my city does. I sit on the edge of the bed and make my voice low, the way her mother used to when the world was not made of knives.
“Once upon a time,” I say, “there was a king who didn’t like his crown.”
Her eyes go wide. “Why not?”
“Because it was heavy,” I say, and tap the paper crown on her head. “He forgot crowns are not for lifting; they’re for carrying.”
“That’s the same thing.” She’s delighted to argue with me. Her mother was, too.
“It isn’t,” I say. “One makes you strong. The other makes you tired.”
She considers, frowning in serious eight-year-old thought. “Did he have a Queen?”
“He did,” I say. My voice tries to break; I don’t let it. “She told him when to go to sleep, when to drink water, and when to stop working because dinner is getting cold.”
Sofia laughs, a bright, sudden sound. “He should listen to her.”
“He should,” I agree.
We finish the story—the Queen wins, because she always should—and I turn out the lamp. She tugs my sleeve as I stand.
“Papà?”
“Mm?”
“When is the play?” she asks, sudden and soft. “You promised. I know you’re busy.”
“I am never too busy for your play.” The words are a vow I mean down to the bone. “Next Friday at Eight. I’ll sit in the front and clap so loud they kick me out.”
She smiles into her pillow, satisfied. “Okay.”
I kiss her hair. It smells like apple shampoo and sleep. My hands are clean tonight. I make sure of that on nights I touch her.
I leave the door half-open. Nicole’s silhouette waits in the hall, hands folded, already measuring tomorrow with me.
“In the morning,” I say quietly, “move my meetings for Next Friday morning. Not the charity lunch. The others.”
She nods. “Alessandro said the same.”
“Of course he did.”
In my study, the windows are black mirrors. The park below glitters—a tamer kind of dark. I pour one finger of scotch I won’t drink and turn the glass in my hand until the surface stills. Silence lies across the room like a sheet.
My phone buzzes.
Alessandro:
She’s asking questions about the East River contracts. And the consultant. She’ll touch our cousins if she keeps pulling.
Lorenzo:
Her editor is a coward. He’ll run what makes him look brave. They’re hungry.
A third, unexpected, from a number I keep for favors too old to be written down:
