Three years ago, I'd thrown myself in front of him to block an assassination attempt by a rival family's enforcer. A combat knife had gone straight through my forearm. I'd nearly bled out on the operating table.
Domenico stared at the scar. There wasn't a shred of sympathy in his eyes. Only irritation.
"Do you walk around with this scar on display every day just to remind me I owe you?"
"Olimpia is easily frightened. She saw the scar on your arm today and was so shaken she couldn't even finish lunch."
"Starting tomorrow, you wear long sleeves inside this house. If you can't manage that, then move out to the gatehouse by the front entrance for a few days. Stay out of Olimpia's sight."
Every word was designed to cut. He was trying to wound me, trying to provoke me into the kind of desperate, heartbroken defense I would have mounted before.
He was waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to crumble, to bow my head and beg for forgiveness.
I looked at his face, twisted with fury, and felt nothing but calm.
I didn't argue. I didn't cry.
I pulled free of his grip, turned, and picked up the black duffel bag.
"Fine. I'll move to the gatehouse right now."