"The decision will be democratic?—"
"Democratic?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You're washing your hands of this, boss. You're playing Pontius Pilate, letting other people make the choice so you don't have to live with the guilt."
The room goes dead silent. Marco's face goes white, and Rafa actually takes a step back. You don't compare the Don to a biblical figure who betrayed an innocent man. You especially don't do it in front of witnesses.
Vito's eyes turn to ice. "What did you just say to me?"
I should back down. I should apologize, show respect, remember my place. But all I can think about is Sofia in that basement, asking me what the meeting was about, telling me she had a right to know what was happening to her life.
"You heard me. You're going to let a room full of men who've never met Sofia decide whether she lives or dies. You're going to put her fate up for a vote like she's some kind of business decision instead of a human being."
"Dante—" Marco starts, but Vito raises a hand to silence him.
"If it were just my decision," Vito says quietly, dangerously, "I wouldn't hand her over. But I'm not just Sofia's brother-in-law. I'm the head of this family, and I have responsibilities to hundreds of people who depend on me to keep them safe."
"So you're going to let other people make the hard choice for you."
"I'm going to let the people who will be affected by the consequences have a voice in the decision."
"Bullshit." The word comes out like a gunshot. "You know exactly how that vote is going to go. Every capo, every underboss, every family head in that room is going to choose their own survival over Sofia's. And you're counting on it because it means you don't have to be the one to give the order."
Vito stands slowly, and I can see the exact moment our relationship—everything he's been to me for the past fifteen years—fractures, maybe beyond repair.
"You're questioning my loyalty to this family," he says, his voice deadly quiet.
"I'm questioning your courage."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. In the silence that follows, I can hear my own heartbeat, can feel the weight of what I've just said.
"Get out," Vito says finally.
"Boss—"
"Get out of my sight before I do something we'll both regret."
I don't move. "What about Sofia? What am I supposed to tell her?"
"You tell her nothing. You go back to the safehouse, you collect her, and you bring her back to the city tomorrow for the summit. She'll hear the decision when everyone else does."
"You're going to make her sit there while a room full of strangers votes on whether to hand her over to be tortured?"
"I'm going to give her the chance to speak for herself before the vote is taken. More than that, I can't do."
I stare at him, this man who saved my life, who gave me everything I have, who's now asking me to deliver Sofia to what amounts to her trial.
"And if I refuse?"
Vito's smile is cold as winter. "Then you're no longer part of this family. And men who betray the family don't tend to live very long."
The threat hangs between us, clear and final. But there's something else in his expression now—something that looks almost like regret.
"Fifteen years, Dante. Fifteen years I've been like a father to you. Don't throw that away over a girl you've known for a few weeks."
"It's not about how long I've known her."
"Then what is it about?"
I look at him for a long moment, trying to find the words to explain what I don't fully understand myself.
