7. Dante
Dante
The black Escalade is idling in the driveway when I get back from morning skate, exhaust curling into the cold air.
New York plates. Of course. Vince is behind the wheel, hands at ten and two, eyes ticking between the mirrors and the front door like he's counting seconds.
He doesn't look at me as I walk past, and his hands don't move from the wheel.
Marco's in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of espresso in his hand like he fucking owns the place.
Charcoal overcoat open, black turtleneck underneath, our grandfather's watch catching the gray light over the sink.
He lifts the mug and takes a slow sip, his eyes on me over the rim.
"Little brother." His mouth spreads into that wide, warm grin—the one he wore at my confirmation, at my first game, at Sunday dinners. "You look thin."
"I'm in season."
"You look thin." His eyes run over my shoulders, my chest, weighing what he sees, and my shoulders square automatically under the assessment. "Mamma would worry."
"Mamma worries when I sneeze."
"She called me Tuesday. Asked if you were eating. I told her I'd check."
"So this is a wellness visit."
"This is a visit." He sets the mug down. The ceramic clicks against the counter. "The wellness is a bonus."
When our father sends Marco instead of calling, the conversation requires a body in the room.
"Walk with me," he says.
We walk. Campus at midday is empty, most classes in session.
A maintenance crew spreads salt along the paths, white crystals scattering across the wet pavement like broken glass.
His breath leaves a thin cloud in the cold.
He walks half a step ahead of me, the way our father walks, and I match the pace without thinking about it, my body falling into the old rhythm like a fucking trained reflex.
"Nice school," he says.
"You've been here before."
"I've been to the arena." His eyes drift to a stone arch connecting two academic buildings. "The campus is different."
His stride shortens. I hear the pleasantries leave his voice before the next sentence arrives, the way ice thickens on a pond.
"Papà sends his regards," he says.
"He could call."
"He did call. You didn't answer."
Two missed calls. Monday night. Wednesday morning. I saw both, and I let them ring.
"I was at practice."
"At eleven on a Wednesday?"
"Film session."
Marco stops. We're in the center of the quad, bare trees framing the walkways, branches rattling lightly in a wind that smells like coming snow. He turns to face me.
"Papà needs something moved through Providence," he says. "The books need adjusting before the quarterly review. He wants your signature on the amended filings."
"When?"
"Before March."
"I'm in the middle of a season, Marco."
"You're always in the middle of a season." His hand lifts in a small, dismissive gesture. "This takes an hour. A signature." He watches my face, reading the resistance I don't bother hiding. "Your name has been on the filing since you turned eighteen."
Eighteen years old. My father's study. Him behind the desk, the lawyer beside him, documents spread across the leather. My name written into every line. Dante Voss. The athlete. The public face. The name that makes the paperwork look ordinary.
"Send me the documents," I say.
"How's the season?" Marco asks, concern sliding back into his voice like it belongs there.
"Good. Eleven wins in a row. Scouts from North Carolina, Philadelphia, Boston."
"Papà likes Philadelphia."
"I know."
"Philadelphia is close to New York. Easy travel. Good media market." He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders. "The family has connections in the front office."
"I know, Marco."
He watches me. The same weight our father carries behind his eyes, measuring what was said, what was meant, and how much it will cost.
"And the other thing?" he asks.
"What other thing?"
"The girl."
My stride breaks—a half-step stumble where my left foot hits the pavement wrong, the jolt shooting up my ankle before I force the next step even. Marco doesn't look down. He doesn't have to. The fucker heard it.
"Papà mentioned a girl," he says.
The girl. Filings, problems, liabilities. The girl.
My hands flex at my sides, fingers curling into my palms before I force them flat against my thighs. Marco's talking about Maya. The journalist. He's asking about the public problem, the one Papà can see from New York. Cole is the private one, locked behind a door down the hall.
"There's no girl."
"That's not what Papà heard." Marco's gaze stays on my face, unblinking. "He heard there's a journalist. Editor of the campus paper. Connected to you through the Maddox kid."
"She's Cole's stepsister. She covers the team for the Chronicle. That's the extent of it."
"Papà is concerned about the Chronicle." Marco turns slightly, scanning the quad before looking back at me. "He's concerned about what a journalist with access to the team might find if she starts looking in the wrong direction."
"She covers hockey."
"Journalists don't stay in one lane, Dante." His eyes stay on mine, dark and steady. "You know that."
"This one had the biggest campus story of the semester last week. Anonymous sourcing. Sealed records." I pause, letting the words sit. "She killed it. Spiked it on sourcing grounds."
The sentence leaves my mouth smooth. Controlled. Too fucking controlled.
Marco's head tilts, and my pulse picks up half a beat. The silence that follows is measured, heavy. He holds it two beats longer than the conversation needs, his eyes moving across my face the way they move across a document, reading what's written and what's between the lines.
"Papà wants assurance," he says finally.
"Tell Papà the Chronicle covers hockey scores and dining hall renovations."
"That's not assurance."
"That's a description."
Marco waits. The wind cuts between us, sharp and cold.
"Then tell him I'll handle it," I say.
"Handle it how?"
"The way I handle everything."
Marco studies me, his expression unreadable. "That's not an answer either."
The quad sits empty around us. Wind slides through the bare branches, a sound like dry bones.
"You're worried about a college newspaper, Marco. Papà's worried about a college newspaper. The Chronicle has a circulation of four thousand. She covers line changes and penalty kills."
Marco turns up the collar of his overcoat, a slow, deliberate motion. "She covers your line changes," he says. "Your penalty kills." His eyes flick over my face, catching the tension I can't fully hide. "That's different."
He turns and starts back toward the driveway. I fall into step beside him, my own footsteps echoing his on the salted pavement.
The Escalade is still idling when we reach the house, exhaust curling around the rear tires. Marco stops beside the driver's door.
"Sign the papers," he says. "Before March."
"I said I would."
"And the journalist—"
"I said I'd handle it."
He opens the door and rests one hand on the frame. He pauses there, his knuckles white against the black paint. "Philadelphia, Dante. Think about it. Close to home." He glances at me, and for a second the mask slips. "Close to us."
Something moves behind the calm. His hand on the car frame tightens for a second, tendons standing out.
His eyes hold mine and for a beat Marco is just my brother.
The one who held my shoulders on a frozen pond outside Milan while my ankles shook on the blades.
The one who took me to my first Serie A match.
The one who sits across from our father in rooms I'll eventually sit in too and carries the weight of it without ever once saying it's heavy.
"Take care of yourself," he says. Quieter. "Mamma worries. I worry too. That part isn't business."
He gets in. The door shuts with a dull thud that vibrates through the cold air. The Escalade rolls down the driveway and turns toward the street, tires crunching over gravel.
I stand there until the red taillights slip around the corner and disappear.
The driveway goes quiet, the engine noise fading into the background hum of campus.
Cold air settles into the space where the car was, sharp against my skin.
My hands are in fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. My jaw is locked so tight the muscle jumps under my skin.
The tension sits across my shoulders like a steel bar, and I can't make it fucking go away.
I go inside.
The kitchen is empty. Marco's coffee cup sits on the counter, cold now, the last trace of espresso pooling in the bottom, dark and bitter.
I wash it, watching the residue swirl down the drain until the water runs clear.
Set the cup on the rack where it will dry and look like nobody was here. Like he was never here.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Cole: Practice at 3. You eating first?
Me: Dining hall. 1:30.
Cole: I'll grab Maya. She forgets to eat when she's editing.
I'll grab Maya. The sentence sits on the screen, glowing up at me.
Cole knows she forgets to eat. He knows she'll come when he asks.
He sat beside her on the couch the night of the party with his arm along the back of the cushion, an inch from her neck.
He told me she spiked the story. He brings two coffees to her desk every morning and knows how she takes hers.
Lately, I catch the precision of what Cole knows—the way he knows her habits, the way he knows how to get her to show up, the way he knows things about her I'm still guessing at.
And now Cole is bringing her directly across from me at a table.
My jaw tightens all over again. The fists I'd unclenched in the driveway close again, knuckles going white.
I pocket the phone. Go upstairs. My bag from morning skate is on the floor beside the desk where I dropped it on the way in, the strap tangled.
In my room, the recorder sits in the top drawer of my desk. Her recorder. The one she set in my open palm, her fingers stopping just short of mine. I've picked it up three times. Each time the plastic warms in my hand before I set it back.
My voice is on there. Her voice. The exact syllables of tourism and borrowed name. And then her voice, steady, coming back with the scout's name and my turnover count and which observer.
I open the drawer. Small. Black. The red light off. She could have asked for it back. She could have texted Cole. She could have come to Elm House and knocked on my door. She hasn't.
I close the drawer.
And last week, Cole told me that the woman my father just flagged as a threat had information she could have used and chose to bury. She had the story. Anonymous sourcing, sealed records, the kind of exposé that writes itself. She killed it.
The calculation doesn't balance. I turn it over once, looking for the angle, the play, the reason, and there's nothing there. Just a choice she made that doesn't fit the grid.
Parasite. That's the word I threw at her when she was fourteen, standing in Cole's hallway with her chin up and her eyes cataloging every damn thing in the room like she was memorizing the exits.
Cole's new stepsister. Small. Quiet. Her hand gripping the strap of her notebook against her chest, knuckles pale, the same way mine grip things when the room feels wrong.
Eyes that moved across every face in the hallway and stopped on mine two beats longer than anyone else's.
I looked, and then I looked again, and that second look lasted longer than I ever fucking meant it to.