Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dante - A week later
Marina's voice drifts from the kitchen. She's humming something. Can't place the song. Doesn't matter. The sound of it settles somewhere in my chest.
Seven days of her asking questions I never expected to answer. What's your favourite colour? Do you dream? What did you want to be when you were little, before everything?
Black. Rarely. A firefighter.
She laughed at that last one. Said she couldn't picture me in the uniform. I told her the hat would mess up my hair. She threw a pillow at my head.
Seven days of cooking together in the kitchen.
Marina burns everything she touches, but she refuses to let me take over.
Stubborn. I stand behind her, guiding her hands on the knife, showing her how to dice onions without losing a finger.
She leans back against my chest like it's natural.
Like we've done this for years instead of days.
Seven days of her talking about memories.
Her grandmother's garden in summer. The smell of tomatoes ripening on the vine.
Her first art show in college, when she sold a painting for forty dollars and felt like a millionaire.
The time Sophia convinced her to sneak into a sold out concert and they got caught by security but talked their way out.
She lights up when she talks about the past. The good parts, anyway. Her eyes change. That guarded look disappears, and I see the woman she was before Daniil. Before me. Before any of this touched her.
I memorize every story. Every detail. The way her nose scrunches when she laughs. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking. The way her damaged hand relaxes when she forgets to hide it.
She's calmer now. The tension that lived in her shoulders has eased. She sleeps through the night without waking up screaming. She smiles.
Christ, she smiles.
Not the polite smile she gave me that first day. Not the defensive smirk she uses as armour. Real smiles. The kind that transform her whole face and make my chest ache.
My phone buzzes. I check the screen.
Car arriving in five minutes.
I pocket the phone and turn toward the kitchen.
Marina stands at the counter, pouring coffee into a travel mug.
She's wearing jeans and a soft grey sweater.
Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders.
She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not fleeing a city with a man who's made deals with the devil.
"Car's here in five," I say.
She looks up.
"Already?"
"Already."
She caps the travel mug and sets it on the counter. Her right hand trembles slightly. She notices me noticing and curls it into a fist.
"Hey." I cross the room and take her hand. Uncurl her fingers. Press my thumb into her palm the way I've learned she likes. "You okay?"
"Nervous." She watches my hands work her muscles. "Stupid, right? I've been to Chicago my entire life."
"Not stupid."
I lift her hand to my mouth. Kiss her knuckles. Her breath catches.
She studies my face. Looking for something. I don't know if she finds it.
"This week," she says quietly. "It was good."
Good. Such a small word for what this week was. For the cooking and the talking and the way she curled against me every night like I was safe.
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "It was good."
My phone buzzes again. The car is downstairs.
"Time to go."
Marina nods. She grabs her travel mug and the small bag she packed. Everything she owns in Denver is still in her apartment. Lorenzo's people will handle it. Ship her things to Chicago or put them in storage. Whatever she decides.
We take the elevator down in silence. Her shoulder presses against my arm. I can feel her pulse racing through the contact.
The garage is cold and grey. A black SUV waits near the elevator bank, engine running. Nico leans against the driver's door, arms crossed.
"About time," he says when we approach.
"Traffic," I say.
Nico's mouth twitches.
Marina hesitates at the SUV door. Her hand finds mine.
"Dante."
"Yeah?"
She doesn't say anything. Just squeezes my fingers. I squeeze back.
Whatever comes next this week happened. She smiled at me. She fell asleep in my arms without flinching.
No one can take that.
I open the door for her. She climbs in, sliding across the leather seat. I follow, settling beside her as Nico gets behind the wheel.
The SUV pulls out of the garage and into the morning light. Denver disappears behind us, block by block.
Marina's hand stays in mine the whole way to the airfield.
Marina
The flight was fine. Smooth air, leather seats. Dante held my hand during takeoff and didn't let go until we landed.
I should have said no.
The thought has crossed my mind at least a dozen times since we left Denver. When Dante told me we were going to Chicago. When Lorenzo called to explain the security arrangements. When Sophia texted asking what room I wanted at the compound.
I should have said no to all of it.
My parents are in Ohio. Safe, according to Lorenzo's people, but I haven't seen them in months. Haven't hugged my mother or let my father make his terrible jokes about my love life. I asked if I could visit them first. Just for a day. Just to see their faces and know they're real.
Lorenzo said no.
Not unkindly. He explained that the Mendoza cartel is still watching, still waiting. That my parents are protected. That I need to stay at the compound until they handle whatever comes next.
Sophia backed him up. Said she understood, said she was sorry, said it wouldn't be long.
I agreed because what choice did I have?
But sitting in this car, watching the Chicago suburbs blur past the tinted windows, I can't stop thinking about how easy it would have been to refuse. To tell Dante I was done. To walk away from all of this and take my chances alone.
I didn't.
I followed him onto the plane. I let him hold my hand. I'm still following him now, driving toward a place that lives in my nightmares.
The car slows. I look up.
Iron gates. A guard house on the right side. Cameras everywhere.
My stomach drops.
The gates swing open. The car rolls through.
Trees line the long driveway. Oaks and maples, perfectly maintained. The cobblestones are smooth under the tires. Everything looks exactly the same as it did two years ago.
My hands start shaking.
Dante notices. He reaches for me, but I pull away. I can't be touched right now. If he touches me, I'll shatter.
"Marina."
"I'm fine."
I'm not fine. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My vision is narrowing at the edges. The trees blur together, and suddenly I'm not in this car anymore.
I'm in a hallway. Daniil's hand around my throat. The crack of a gunshot. Pain exploding through my hand.
"Marina. Look at me."
Dante's voice cuts through the memory. I blink. The hallway disappears. I'm back in the car, gripping the leather seat so hard my knuckles are white.
"Breathe," he says. "You're safe."
Safe. The word feels hollow.
The car rounds a curve, and the main house appears.
Beautiful. Terrifying.
The car stops in front of the entrance. Wide stone steps lead up to double doors that must be fifteen feet tall. Everything is exactly as I remember it.
The driver opens my door.
I don't move.
I can't move. My body has locked up, every muscle frozen. The panic I've been fighting claws its way up my chest, wrapping around my lungs, squeezing until I can't breathe.
"Marina."
Dante's hand hovers near my shoulder. Not touching. Waiting.
I force myself to look at him. His dark eyes are steady. Patient. He's not rushing me. He's not telling me to get over it or calm down or stop being dramatic.
He's just there.
I take a breath. Then another.
"I need a minute," I whisper.
"Take as long as you need."
Movement at the top of the stairs catches my attention. A figure appears in the doorway.
Sophia.
She's wearing a simple blue dress, her dark hair pulled back from her face. She looks different than she did in Denver. More settled. More sure of herself. But her eyes are the same. Warm and worried and full of love.
She doesn't rush down the stairs. She waits at the top, giving me space.
I climb out of the car on shaking legs. The cobblestones are uneven under my feet. I grip the car door for balance, then let go.
One step. Two. Three.
Sophia meets me halfway down the stairs. Her hand extends toward me, palm up. An offering. A lifeline.
I grab it.
Her fingers close around mine, warm and solid and real. The tears I've been fighting spill over, streaming down my cheeks. I can't stop them. Don't want to stop them.
"Hey," Sophia says softly. "I've got you."
A sob tears out of my throat. Sophia pulls me into her arms, and I collapse against her, crying into her shoulder like I'm five years old and the world is too big and too scary and too much.
She holds me. Doesn't say anything. Just holds me while I fall apart on the steps of the house that haunts my dreams.
When the worst of it passes, I pull back. Wipe my face with shaking hands. Try to find some semblance of composure.
"Sorry," I manage. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't you dare apologize." Sophia's voice is fierce. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
I look past her at the massive doors. The foyer beyond. The house full of people who will want to see me, talk to me, ask questions I don't have answers for.
"I can't," I whisper. "Not yet. I can't face them."
Sophia squeezes my hand.
"You don't have to. We can go straight to your room. Get you settled. The others can wait."
Relief floods through me. I nod, not trusting my voice.
Sophia keeps hold of my hand as she leads me up the remaining stairs. I don't look back at Dante. I can't. If I look at him right now, I'll start crying again.
The doors open. The foyer stretches before us.
Sophia guides me past it all. Down a hallway. Up a staircase.
I follow her, one step at a time, her hand the only thing keeping me tethered to the present.
Dante
I watch Marina disappear into the house with Sophia. Her hand gripping Sophia's like a lifeline. Her shoulders shaking with sobs she couldn't hold back.
The car pulls away behind me. Nico heads toward the side entrance, already on his phone. The guards at the gate return to their posts. Everything moves like clockwork. The Sartori machine, running smooth and efficient.
I used to feel pride when I saw it. Twenty years of building something. Twenty years of loyalty and blood and sacrifice.
Now it just feels hollow.
"Dante."
Lorenzo's voice comes from the top of the stairs. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that steady gaze that's always seen too much.
I climb the steps. Each one feels heavier than the last.
"Welcome home," Lorenzo says.
Home.
This place was home once. These walls. These people. The family I chose when I had nothing. The brothers who took me in when the world had thrown me away.
Now I know the truth.
Lorenzo is my brother. My actual blood brother.
Giuseppe fathered children across Chicago like he was planting seeds. Lorenzo. Me. Alejandro. The kids he had with his secret mistress. God knows how many others.
We're all his kids. All his victims.
Lorenzo extends his hand. I take it. His grip is firm, familiar. The same handshake we've exchanged a thousand times.
"You look like shit," he says.
"Feel like it too."
He pulls me into a brief embrace. One arm around my shoulders, a quick pat on the back. The way brothers do.
I pull away before he can feel me tense.
"How's the wound?" he asks.
"Healing."
"Marchetti said you're lucky to be alive."
"Marchetti says that every time."
Lorenzo almost smiles. Almost. But his eyes stay sharp, searching my face for something I'm not giving him.
"Everything okay?"
The question hangs between us.
"Everything's fine," I say.
The lie comes easy. Too easy. Twenty years of lying for this family, and now I'm lying to them.
Lorenzo studies me for a long moment. I keep my face blank. Give him nothing.
Finally, he nods.
"Come on. We need to talk."
He turns and walks into the house. I follow.
The game starts now.
No one in this house will be unaffected.
That's how life is.