Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Bianca
The attacks start small.
An email blast from a gossip site I've never heard of, subject line: "Educator by Day, Service Provider by Night?
" The blind item is vague enough to have plausible deniability but specific enough that anyone who knows me would recognize the details.
A Manhattan schoolteacher with connections to organized crime has a past that might shock her students' parents.
Sources say she worked in the "service industry" before landing her current position. How did she really afford that degree?
I delete it. Block the sender. Pretend my hands aren't shaking.
Two days later, I visit Mom at the clinic.
Something's wrong the moment I walk in.
The air feels heavier. Antiseptic smell mixed with something else—something like decay trying to hide beneath bleach and air freshener.
The nurse—Patricia, who's been with Mom for months—moves with a carefulness that makes my stomach drop.
Gentle touches. Quiet steps. The kind of movements you use around something breakable.
And Mom herself looks worse. Her skin has gone sallow, almost gray. The color of old newspapers left too long in the sun. Her breathing is shallow, each inhale a visible effort that makes her chest hitch. The bones in her hands stand out sharper than last week. Sharper than yesterday.
"Mom?" I pull a chair close to her bed, take her hand. It feels too light. Too fragile. Like I could snap her wrist with the wrong amount of pressure. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired." Her voice is barely a whisper. "But the new medication helps."
"New medication?"
"Dr. Kent changed my prescription last week. Something stronger for the pain. And they brought in a night nurse." She manages a weak smile. "I told them it wasn't necessary, but apparently someone authorized it. The nurse is very sweet. Reads to me when I can't sleep."
My chest tightens.
"Someone authorized it?"
Patricia appears at my elbow with a chart. "Miss Mancini, could I speak with you for a moment? Outside?"
I follow her into the hallway, dread coiling in my stomach.
"What's going on?"
"Your mother's condition has worsened. The cancer is progressing faster than we anticipated.
" She flips through the chart, shows me numbers and graphs that might as well be hieroglyphics.
"Dr. Kent wanted to increase her comfort care, but the treatments she needed weren't covered under the original plan. "
"So what happened?"
"The billing shifted this month. We received authorization for additional services—private night nursing, upgraded pain management, faster imaging schedules. Everything your mother needs to stay comfortable."
"From who?"
Patricia hesitates. "The coverage came through a different channel. A private benefactor updated the account."
I don't need her to say his name.
Dante.
He did this. Without asking me. Without consulting me. Just... handled it.
Understanding splits me down the middle.
Gratitude—raw and overwhelming—because Mom is getting the care she needs. Care I could never afford on a teacher's salary. Care that might buy her weeks or months of dignity and comfort.
But also anger. Fury at being managed. At having yet another decision about my life made without my input. At being reminded that I'm still the woman who needs saving.
"Miss Mancini?" Patricia touches my arm. "Are you alright?"
"Fine, yes, I’m sorry." I force a smile. "Thank you for letting me know."
I return to Mom's room and sit beside her bed. She's dozing, her chest rising and falling in that too-shallow rhythm. I watch her sleep and try to sort through the tangle of emotions choking me.
After a while, her eyes open.
"You're still here," she says softly.
"Of course, I am."
She studies my face with that particular intensity only mothers possess. "You look different."
"Different how?"
"Older. Sadder." She squeezes my hand weakly. "But also... lighter somehow. Like something heavy finally lifted."
I don't know how to respond to that.
"Tell me about him," she says.
"About who?"
"We both know I’m speaking about Dante." Her eyes—still sharp despite the morphine haze—find mine. "He’s the one who authorized all this care, isn’t he? The man you love."
My throat closes. "Mom—"
"Let’s not sugarcoat it, sweetheart, I'm dying.
Don't waste our time together pretending.
" Her smile is gentle. Sad. Knowing. "I notice things.
The way you touch that cross when you talk about your days.
The way tension and warmth live together in your shoulders now.
The way you look at your phone like you're waiting for something. You're in love."
The statement hangs between us.
I want to deny it. Want to deflect and change the subject and protect myself from the vulnerability of admitting the truth. Want to keep this part of my life separate from her—clean and uncomplicated by the mess I've made.
But she's right. She's dying. And if there's anyone in the world I owe honesty to, it's her.
"It's complicated," I say finally.
"Love usually is."
"He's... not what I expected. Not what I planned for.
" I stop, searching for words that won't sound insane.
How do I explain Dante? The violence and the tenderness.
The control and the care. The way he makes me feel owned and cherished at the same time.
"He's dangerous. Really dangerous. The kind of man I should run from. "
"But you're not running."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because he sees me. All of me. Even the parts I tried to hide.
Even the parts I'm ashamed of. And he stays anyway.
" The confession cracks something open in my chest. "He doesn't try to fix me or save me or make me into something I'm not. He just... accepts me. Fights for me. Chooses me. Because I want him just as badly.”
"Then he's a good man."
"I don't know if 'good' is the right word."
"Good enough for you. That's what matters. I liked him, you know this." She coughs, and I reach for her water cup. She sips carefully and clears her throat. "Does he make you happy?"
"Yes. And terrified. And furious. And safe. All at the same time."
She laughs—a weak, rattling sound. "That's how I felt about your father. Before he left."
"This is different."
"I hope so." She closes her eyes again. "I hope you get the ending I didn't."
The machines beep steadily in the background. Patricia checks vitals through the glass, gives me a small nod.
I sit with Mom until she falls back asleep, my hand wrapped around hers.
When I finally leave, I stand in the parking lot and grip the cross pendant until the edges dig into my palm.
The metal is warm from my skin. A reminder of everything she sacrificed for me.
Everything she gave up. Every choice she made to keep us afloat when my father walked away and left us with nothing.
And now Dante is sacrificing for her. For me.
Upgrading her care without asking because he knew I'd argue. Because he knew I'd see it as charity or control or both. Because he knew I'd rather suffer alone than accept help I didn't earn.
But maybe it's simpler than that.
Maybe it's just love.
The kind of love that doesn't wait for permission. That acts because the alternative—watching someone you care about suffer—is unbearable. The kind that shows up in upgraded medications and night nurses instead of flowers and promises.
I think about Mom's question. Does he make you happy?
Yes.
Even when he infuriates me. Even when he takes control without asking. Even when loving him feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no safety net. Even when his world threatens to swallow mine whole.
Yes.
I'm happy.
And terrified of losing it.