Chapter 4 #3
Every instinct I'd built over ten years of self-protection screamed at me to decline politely.
To keep my distance. To trust no one in this new world, least of all someone who was literally part of the family I was marrying into.
The Carusos could want a hundred things from me—information about my family, leverage over the alliance, a way to manipulate the new bride before she learned the landscape.
I should protect myself.
I should stay small and careful and alone.
My thumb moved over the keyboard.
"Lavender lattes sound frankly terrifying. I'm in. When and where?"
I hit send before I could talk myself out of it. Before the fear could override the desperate, dangerous hope that was unfurling in my chest like something that had been waiting too long to bloom.
The response came immediately—so fast that Donatella must have been watching her phone, must have been waiting to see if I'd say yes.
"YESSSSS. Tomorrow 10am. I'll pick you up. Wear comfortable shoes—I give aggressive walking tours. ??????"
Three purple hearts. All caps enthusiasm. The promise of aggressive walking tours.
It was absurd. It was probably a mistake. It was definitely not the safe, controlled behavior I'd promised myself I would maintain.
But sitting in the Peninsula's elegant lobby, surrounded by strangers in a city I didn't know, facing a wedding to a man I didn't understand, I felt my mouth curve into something that might have been a smile.
It was small. It was barely there.
But it was something.
Donatella Caruso was a force of nature in vintage Levi's and a cashmere sweater, her dark curls escaping from a messy bun, her energy filling the hotel lobby like she owned it.
I spotted her before she spotted me—partly because she was impossible to miss, all animated gestures and designer sunglasses pushed up on her head like a headband, and partly because I'd been watching the entrance since nine forty-five, trying to prepare myself for whatever this encounter would bring.
No amount of preparation could have readied me for the hug.
"You're prettier than your photos," she announced, pulling me into an embrace before I could brace for impact.
She smelled like expensive perfume and fresh air and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or brown sugar.
"Dante's going to lose his mind. He already looked like someone hit him with a brick at the funeral—did you notice?
He's usually so composed, but he could barely string a sentence together when you talked to him. I've never seen him like that."
She released me from the hug but immediately linked her arm through mine, steering me toward the lobby doors with the confidence of someone who had never in her life been uncertain about where she was going.
"Okay, so, the coffee place is in Lincoln Park, which means we're walking through some of the good neighborhoods so I can show you where things are.
" She barely paused for breath, her words tumbling over each other like puppies fighting for attention.
"The lakefront is that way, Caruso's is about twenty minutes south, and there's this little bookshop on Armitage that I'm obsessed with—do you read?
Please tell me you read. My brothers are all business and violence and I'm desperate for someone to talk about books with—"
I let the chatter wash over me, but my mind had snagged on one detail.
Dante looked like someone hit him with a brick.
I'd interpreted his curtness as disinterest. Disdain, even.
The clipped response of a man evaluating an unwanted obligation and finding it lacking.
But Donatella knew her brother. Had watched him navigate countless social situations, countless introductions, countless moments where composure mattered.
And she was saying he'd lost that composure. With me.
"—and this is the part where Lake Shore Drive does that stupid thing where it curves for no reason, I swear city planners were drunk when they designed this—"
He could barely string a sentence together.
I turned the information over in my mind, examining it from different angles. What did it mean if Dante Caruso—new don, master of control, man who commanded rooms without raising his voice—had been thrown off balance by meeting me? Was it good? Bad? Another kind of danger I hadn't prepared for?
"—okay, so, confession, I may have googled you extensively," Donatella was saying, and I tuned back in with a jolt.
"Not in a creepy way! In a 'my brother is marrying a stranger and I want to make sure she's not a serial killer' way.
You studied art history at Columbia, right?
That's so cool. I wanted to go to art school but Papa said it was 'impractical for a woman of my position,' which, rude, but also he was probably right because I can't draw for shit—"
We'd turned onto a side street, trees lining the sidewalk, brownstones rising on either side. The October morning was crisp, the sky a pale blue that made the city look almost friendly. I was focusing on the rhythm of our footsteps, the weight of Donatella's arm in mine, when I saw him.
A man huddled in a doorway. Gray hair, weathered skin, a coat that was too thin for the season. He had a cardboard sign propped against his knees: Hungry. Anything helps. God bless.
I stopped walking.
Donatella stopped with me, her chatter trailing off as she followed my gaze.
My father's voice echoed in my head—clear as if he were standing beside me. Beggars are parasites, Gemma. Giving them money only encourages weakness. A strong society doesn't reward failure.
I opened my purse.
My wallet was in there, packed with the crisp bills my father's assistant had provided "for incidentals." Money I hadn't earned. Money that wasn't really mine. Money that existed because I was a Moretti and Morettis always had money, even when they had nothing else.
I pulled out a twenty. Then another.
I folded them together and walked to the doorway.
The man looked up at me with eyes that had seen too much. Blue eyes, faded like old denim, set in a face that had been handsome once before life had worn it down to bone and shadow.
"Get something hot," I said quietly, pressing the bills into his weathered hand. "It's cold today."
His fingers closed around the money. "God bless you, miss." His voice cracked on the words. "God bless you."
I nodded—there was nothing to say that would matter—and returned to where Donatella waited on the sidewalk.
She was watching me. Not with judgment or surprise or the performative concern of someone who thought they were witnessing something noteworthy. Just watching. Her dark eyes—the same shade as her brother's, I realized—were steady and quiet in a face that had been all motion moments before.
She didn't say anything.
She just slipped her arm through mine again and started walking.
But her grip felt warmer somehow. More real. Like something had shifted between us—some invisible barrier coming down, some door opening that I hadn't even known was closed.
"The coffee shop is two blocks up," she said, her voice softer than it had been. "The lavender lattes really are ridiculous. I want you to know that going in."
"I'm prepared for ridiculous," I said.
"Good." She squeezed my arm. "Because I'm about to give you the most aggressive walking tour of Lincoln Park in human history, and I need you to keep up."
The coffee shop was called The Violet Hour, tucked into a tree-lined street in Lincoln Park, and the lavender lattes were actually delicious—a fact I admitted with genuine surprise as Donatella grinned at me over the rim of her cup.
"Told you," she said, triumphant. "Everyone thinks lavender in coffee is going to taste like soap, but this place does something magical with it. I don't ask questions. I just drink." He laughed. “Don’t think, just drink. It’s like my life philosophy.”
We'd claimed a corner table by the window, afternoon light slanting through the glass, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.
The walk had taken almost an hour—Donatella's "aggressive walking tour" had included commentary on everything from the best pizza place in the city ("Lou Malnati's, anyone who says Giordano's is lying") to the history of the brownstones we passed ("robber baron money, mostly, which feels appropriate for our family situation").
Now she was giving me a crash course in Caruso family dynamics, delivered with the same rapid-fire energy she brought to everything.
"Okay, so Santo." She ticked off a finger.
"He's basically a golden retriever who thinks he's a pit bull.
All bark, lots of bite actually, but underneath he's soft as butter.
He'll probably grunt at you and not make eye contact for the first six months, but that's just his thing. Don't take it personally."
"Noted."
"Marco's the charmer. He runs this nightclub—Nero, very bougie, very scene-y—and he knows everyone and everything.
Don't trust a word he says, but also trust everything he says.
It's complicated. He'll flirt with you because he flirts with everyone, but it doesn't mean anything.
It's just how his face works. He’s got resting slut face. "
I took a sip of my latte to hide the smile tugging at my mouth.
"And the restaurant—Caruso's—that's the heart of everything. It's where we have family dinners, where Dante holds court, where all the important stuff happens. The gnocchi is transcendent. I won't hear arguments on this point."
She paused to drink her coffee, and I watched her face shift. The manic energy dimming slightly, something more serious rising beneath it.
"Can I be honest with you about something?"
The question made my shoulders tense automatically—that phrase never preceded anything good—but I nodded.
"Dante is—" She hesitated, choosing words with a care that seemed uncharacteristic.
"He's not easy to know. He's private. Controlled.
Very protective of the people he cares about.
" She set down her cup, wrapping both hands around it like she needed the anchor.
"Some people find him cold, or demanding, or—intense, I guess.
He has certain expectations, certain ways he shows he cares that aren't always obvious. "
I thought about his face at the funeral. The shuttered expression. The rough, clipped response when I'd offered condolences.
"But he's the best man I know."
The words landed with the weight of absolute conviction. Donatella's dark eyes met mine, and I saw something in them that I recognized—the fierce, protective love of someone who had been raised by the person they were defending.
"When our mom died," she continued, and her voice softened on the words, "Dante was fifteen.
I was eight. And he basically—he raised me.
Papa was drowning in grief, couldn't function, couldn't take care of himself let alone the rest of us.
The boys were each dealing with it in their own ways—Santo got angry, Marco got distant—but Dante just . . . stepped up."
She took a breath. Let it out slowly.
"He made sure I ate. Made sure I slept. Made sure I did my homework even when the house felt like a tomb and no one wanted to do anything except lie down and stop existing.
" A small, sad smile crossed her face. "He would check on me at night.
Sit on the edge of my bed and ask about my day, even when I knew he was exhausted, even when he had his own grief to carry.
He never let me see how much he was struggling. He just—took care of me."
My throat had gone tight. I didn't trust myself to speak.
"That's who he is," Donatella said. "Under all the don stuff, under the control and the expectations and the intensity. He takes care of people. It's just—" She paused, searching for the right words. "His way of doing it isn't always what people expect."
I thought about what she was describing. A fifteen-year-old boy shouldering responsibility that should have belonged to adults. A man who showed love through action rather than words. Someone who noticed when people weren't eating, weren't sleeping, weren't okay.
He takes care of people.
Something stirred in my chest. Something dangerous and hopeful that I didn't want to examine too closely.
Donatella reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her palm was warm against my fingers, her grip firm without being demanding.
"I don't know what kind of marriage you're expecting," she said quietly. "Or what you've been told about my brother. But I want you to know that whatever happens, you're not alone here. You have me."
Her eyes were bright. Fierce. The same intensity I'd seen in photographs of Dante, channeled into something softer.
"And Dante—if you let him—he'll take care of you in ways you didn't even know you needed." She squeezed my hand again. "Just give him a chance to show you who he really is. Okay?"
I looked at this woman across the table. This warm, chaotic force of nature who had offered friendship without agenda. Who had watched me give money to a homeless man and said nothing judgmental. Who spoke of her brother with a love that bordered on reverence.
She was asking me to hope.
That was what it came down to.
It was terrifying.
Hope was always terrifying when you'd learned, over and over, that hoping only made the disappointment worse.
But sitting in this sunlit coffee shop, with lavender on my tongue and Donatella's hand in mine and the first real warmth I'd felt in days spreading through my chest, I couldn't quite make myself refuse it.
"Okay," I said. My voice came out rough, scraped over the emotion I was trying to contain. "I'll try."
Donatella's face split into a grin that could have lit up the entire block.
"That's all I'm asking." She released my hand and picked up her latte again, the serious moment passing as quickly as it had arrived.
"Now. Tell me about this art history degree.
I need to know if you're a Caravaggio person or a Botticelli person, because this will determine the entire future of our friendship. "
I laughed—a real laugh, surprising both of us—and let her pull me into a conversation about Renaissance painters that somehow evolved into a debate about whether the Uffizi was better than the Met.
The afternoon stretched on. The lavender lattes gave way to espresso, then to sparkling water as the sun shifted angles through the window.
Donatella talked and I listened and occasionally I talked too, and for a few hours I forgot about weddings and fathers and men with hungry eyes and the weight of expectations I'd never asked to carry.