Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Marina
Iknock on the door before Dante can change his mind.
The seconds stretch. I feel him tense beside me, his hand tightening around mine. The man who faced down a cartel leader without flinching is terrified of my mother.
The door swings open.
"Marina!"
Mom stands in the doorway, flour dusting her apron, her graying hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looks exactly the same. Warm. Soft. Home.
I release Dante's hand and throw myself into her arms.
"Mom."
She pulls me close, squeezing so tight I can barely breathe. The familiar scent of her perfume and baking bread wraps around me. I didn't realize how much I missed this. How much I needed it.
"My baby." She rocks me gently, the way she did when I was small. "You're here. You're really here."
"I'm here."
She pulls back, holding my face in her hands. Her eyes are wet. She studies me like she's checking for damage, cataloging every detail.
Then her gaze shifts over my shoulder.
To Dante.
I watch her expression change. Recognition flickers first. She remembers him from the hospital. The man who wouldn't leave. The man covered in blood who sat in the corner like a shadow.
Mom looks at me. Then back at Dante. Then at me again.
Something passes across her face. Understanding, maybe. Or acceptance. I can't quite read it.
Then she steps around me and walks straight to Dante.
He goes rigid. I see his shoulders lock, his jaw clench. He's bracing for rejection. For the cold shoulder. For the same look my father gave him two years ago.
Mom opens her arms and hugs him.
Dante freezes.
His hands hover awkwardly at his sides. He looks at me over her shoulder, eyes wide with something close to panic. I've never seen him look so lost.
"Thank you," Mom whispers against his chest. "Thank you for bringing her back to me."
Dante's throat works. He doesn't speak. Can't, probably. But slowly, carefully, his arms come up and wrap around my mother.
I knew it.
When Mom finally releases him, I turn and arch my eyebrow at Dante. Told you so.
He glares at me. But there's something soft underneath it. Something cracked open.
"Richard!" Mom calls into the house. "They're here!"
Footsteps thunder down the hallway. My father appears in the doorway, still wearing his reading glasses, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He's grayer than I remember. More lines around his eyes.
"Marina."
I run to him.
Dad catches me the way he always has. Strong arms. Solid chest. The smell of coffee and old books. I bury my face in his shoulder and feel like a little girl again.
"Missed you, kiddo."
"Missed you too, Dad."
He holds me for a long moment. When he pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright behind his glasses. He clears his throat and looks past me.
At Dante.
The two men stare at each other. Dad's expression is unreadable. Dante's is carefully blank. The tension stretches.
I step back and gesture between them.
"Dad, Mom, this is Dante." I take a breath. "We came to have dinner together. If you want."
Silence.
Dad removes his glasses and tucks them into his shirt pocket. He studies Dante the way he used to study my high school boyfriends. Measuring. Assessing.
Then he extends his hand.
"Thank you," Dad says, "for taking care of my daughter."
Dante takes his hand. They shake. Something passes between them. Some kind of understanding I'm not privy to.
"She takes care of herself," Dante says. "I just try to keep up."
Dad's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "That sounds about right."
I stare at my father. This is the same man who looked at Dante like he was a criminal two years ago. The same man who demanded to know who this stranger was, sitting at his daughter's bedside. The same man who barely spoke to Dante the entire time I was in the hospital.
Now he's shaking his hand and thanking him.
"Dad?"
He looks at me. "What?"
"You... you're okay with this?"
Dad glances at Dante, then back at me. "Your mother and I have had two years to think about that man in the hospital. The one who wouldn't leave."
My throat tightens.
"We didn't understand it then," Dad continues. "But we understand it now."
Mom appears at his side, slipping her arm through his. "A man who sits at a woman's bedside for three days without sleeping, without eating, without leaving even when her parents tell him to go..." She smiles at Dante. "That's not a stranger. Welcome to our family."
Dante's composure cracks. Just for a second. I see the emotion flash across his face before he locks it down.
"Come in, come in." Mom waves us toward the door. "Dinner's almost ready. I made pot roast. Marina, you still like pot roast, don't you? Of course you do. And Dante, do you have any allergies? Dietary restrictions? I didn't know you were coming—"
"No allergies," Dante manages. His voice sounds rough. "Thank you, Mrs. Reeves."
"Call me Helen." Mom beams at him. "Mrs. Reeves makes me feel old."
Dad steps aside to let us pass. As Dante walks by, Dad claps him on the shoulder.
"Welcome to the family, son."
Dante stops. Turns. Looks at my father with an expression I've never seen before.
Lost. Grateful. Terrified.
"Thank you, sir."
"Richard." Dad's eyes crinkle. "If you're going to be around, you might as well use my name."
We enter the house. The warmth hits me immediately. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread. The sound of a clock ticking in the hallway. Family photos line the walls. Me as a baby. Me at graduation. Me and Sophia at prom.
Home.
I look at Dante. He's taking it all in. The worn carpet. The mismatched furniture. The evidence of a life lived in love and comfort. So different from his penthouse. So different from the compound.
Mom bustles toward the kitchen, already talking about side dishes and dessert options. Dad follows, asking Dante if he wants a beer or something stronger.
Dante catches my eye.
Thank you, he mouths.
I smile and take his hand, leading him deeper into my childhood home.
Dante
The pot roast was perfect. Helen's cooking reminded me of meals I'd forgotten existed. Warm. Simple. Made with love instead of obligation.
Now we sit in the living room, coffee cups in hand. Richard asks about my work. I tell him what I can. Security consulting. Risk management. The sanitized version that doesn't involve blood or bullets.
Helen watches me with soft eyes. She keeps touching Marina's arm, like she needs to confirm her daughter is real. I understand the impulse.
Marina laughs at something her father says. The sound fills the room. Fills me.
This is what normal looks like. This is what I never had.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out. Nico's name flashes on the screen.
"Excuse me." I stand and step toward the hallway. "I need to take this."
I answer before the second ring. "What's wrong?"
"Nora." Nico's voice is tight. Controlled. But I hear the fear underneath. "Her water broke. We're heading to the hospital now. Pietro's losing his mind. I've never seen him like this."
"Which hospital?"
"Northwestern Memorial. Bruno and Lorenzo are already on their way."
"I'm in Ohio. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Drive safe." Nico hangs up.
I turn back to the living room. Marina is already on her feet, her face pale.
"What happened?" She crosses to me. "Dante, what's wrong?"
"Nora's water broke." I pocket my phone. "She's heading to the hospital. The baby's coming."
Marina's expression transforms. Fear becomes joy. She claps her hands together, bouncing on her toes.
"Oh my God!" She grabs my arm. "The baby's coming! Dante, the baby!"
Helen rises from the couch, coffee cup still in hand. "Who's Nora, dear?"
I look at Marina. Then back at Helen.
"My sister-in-law," I say. "Pietro's wife."
Helen's eyebrows lift. "Pietro?"
"My brother."
Richard sets down his cup. "How many brothers and sisters do you have, son?"
The question hits me somewhere deep. Brothers and sisters.
I look at Marina. She squeezes my hand. Her eyes are warm. Encouraging.
"Four brothers," I say. "And a sister."
Helen's hand goes to her chest. "Four brothers! My goodness. Your mother must have had her hands full."
Something twists in my chest.
"She did," I manage. "She does."
Marina steps closer to her parents. "Mom, Dad, we need to go. The baby—"
"Of course, of course." Helen sets down her cup and pulls Marina into a hug. "Go. Be with your family."
Your family.
The words echo in my head.
Richard shakes my hand again. His grip is firm. Steady.
"Take care of her," he says.
"Always."
Helen hugs me next. I'm more prepared this time. My arms come up faster. Hold her properly.
"Come back soon," she whispers. "Both of you."
"We will."
Marina kisses her father's cheek, then her mother's. She's already moving toward the door, pulling me with her.
"Call us when the baby arrives!" Helen calls after us.
"I will!" Marina waves over her shoulder.
We're out the door and down the porch steps in seconds. The car waits in the driveway. Marina practically runs to the passenger side.
I slide behind the wheel and start the engine.
"How far is Northwestern from here?" Marina asks, buckling her seatbelt.
"Six hours. Maybe five if I push it."
"Push it."
I pull out of the driveway. Helen and Richard stand on the porch, waving. Marina waves back until we turn the corner and they disappear from view.
Marina
We've been here for seven hours. My back aches from the plastic chair. My eyes burn from exhaustion.
But I'm not leaving.
Sophia sits beside me. Lorenzo paces by the window. Bruno leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching the door like it might attack. Nico stands near the vending machine, his phone in his hand.
Antonella dozes in the chair next to Bruno, her own pregnant belly round beneath her sweater. Kristen went home hours ago to be with Lily, but she made us promise to call the moment the baby arrived.
Aria sits in the center of us all. Her hands are folded in her lap. Her eyes are fixed on the door to the maternity ward.