“You need to remember who built this house for you,” he said.
I did not answer.
“I need a son, Elena,” he said, his voice dropping into that cold, steady register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. “My father’s name does not end with two girls.”
He reached out and grabbed my upper arm, his thumb digging into the muscle just below my shoulder. He did not shake me, but the pressure was constant, pushing me back toward the edge of the brick step.
“We are going to have that discussion tonight,” he said.
I tried to pull back, my heel catching the empty space where the concrete dropped six inches to the lower patio. My weight shifted.
