Chapter 8
Victor’s motive was not loyalty alone.
He expected to run Blackthorne.
My mother had promised him.
There it was.
A promotion disguised as tradition.
“You would raise my son.”
“Train.”
He corrected me.
“No.”
I stared.
“Raise.”
Victor looked away.
Six months initially.
Then annual summers.
Later weekends.
Eventually Milo would spend more time under Victor’s instruction.
Exactly how influence becomes parenthood by increments.
“What would you teach him?”
“Discipline.”
“Besides that word.”
He sighed.
Security.
Negotiation.
Weapons when older.
Family history.
Hierarchy.
Loyalty.
Everything except how to be four.
“And Clara?”
“No reason for her to attend.”
Of course.
She was not being prepared for power.
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“She’s a girl.”
Simple.
At least honest.
“Could she lead?”
Victor almost laughed.
Then saw my face.
Stopped.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
He leaned back.
“The capos would never—”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Silence.
“Could she?”
He looked toward the library.
“She’s intelligent.”
“She discovered your kidnapping.”
His jaw tightened.
“She was emotional.”
“She was correct.”
Silence.
Interesting.
A boy locked in a cabinet was future leadership material.
The girl who understood and defeated the plan was too emotional.
Tradition is often prejudice after generations of good tailoring.
I looked at Victor.
“You wanted Blackthorne because it would make you the man behind the heir.”
He said nothing.
“You spend six months becoming necessary.”
Still nothing.
“Then every future decision involving Milo comes through you.”
His face hardened.
“You sound paranoid.”
“No.”
I smiled faintly.
“I sound like a man whose son you put inside a cabinet.”
Victor looked away.
There.
I had it.
My mother wanted control.
Victor wanted relevance.
Teresa wanted tradition.
The old capos wanted predictability.
Different motives converged on one small child because children cannot defend their own future.
May you like
Except Milo had Clara.
And they had underestimated her.
