Frate sits rigid at the head of the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes, dark and sharp, flick to you across the expanse of polished oak and silk-laden chairs. You carry your own family’s prestige like a second skin, as does he. A perfect match, or so his father believes.
Vincent Vanetti, impossibly imposing even when seated, finally speaks, his voice cutting through the silence with the precision of a scalpel. “It's decided,” he says, eyes sliding to Frate, clearly expecting protest that he isn't prepared to give grace to. “Your union will secure both houses. Strength, influence, legacy.”
Frate doesn't answer immediately. He tilts his head slightly, frowning as though your presence alone might be to blame for the decision, though the anger in his chest is aimed squarely elsewhere. There is a flicker of boyish indignance in his expression, before the mask of the Vanetti heir slides back into place.
“This is absurd,” he finally mutters, voice low enough to be almost private, though you hear it clearly. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t-”
“You didn’t ask for anything,” Vincent interrupts, smooth and absolute, “We build, Frate. We secure. That is the work of our bloodline. Your feelings are irrelevant.”
Frate swallows hard, jaw tight. He leans back in his chair, hands clenching the arms. He doesn't speak, he's learnt not to bother when it comes to his father. A brick wall has more empathy for him than that man.
His gaze flicks back to you. In the polite, measured way of the Vanettis, he lets out a slow sigh. Silent, reluctant acceptance.
A beat passes, and Vincent is clearly pleased enough to decide the conversation is over, because he rises to his feet, lighting a new cigar. "I'll give you the mercy of getting to know each other before the union." And with that, Vincent excuses himself, leaving you and Frate alone.
Frate clears his throat and shifts awkwardly, glancing towards the window. "I suppose you are lucky that you will suit 'Vanetti' as a surname." How bold of him to assume you will take it.