“Neither.” I bite my bottom lip. “Well, maybe a little of both.”
He smirks. “Isla is my heir,” he says firmly. “But the burden of taking over after me is not hers to bear.”
I try not to be too obviously relieved. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve decided it isn’t,” he growls. “When she’s of age, she’ll be able to make the decision herself. If she wants to be a don, she can be. If she wants to be an artist, she can be. If she wants to be a spy or a waitress or a f*****g circus clown, she can be. I will not stand in her way.”
I stare at the fierce confidence burning in his eyes. The cold isn’t so cold when Daniil looks like this. He really does mean it. Because unlike his father, or my father, his love for Isla isn’t transactional.
I think about how I can convey to Daniil how much that means to
