Julia
Chapter Twenty One
By the time Dante knocks on my apartment door, I have rearranged the throw pillows on my couch three times, wiped down the kitchen counter twice, and poured a glass of wine I have not touched.
My phone sits face down on the coffee table.
Ricardo called twenty minutes ago.
He wanted to come. He did not like the idea of me telling Dante alone. I could hear it in every measured word.
I begged him anyway.
I hate that word. Begged. It makes me sound weak, and I am trying very hard to stop thinking of it that way.
But I needed to be the one to tell Dante. Alone. Before Dante saw us standing together like a united front. Before he looked at Ricardo’s hand on my back or my face beside his father’s and decided the two people closest to him had already taken a side opposite him.
“He’ll take it better from me,” I told him.
“You cannot know that.”
“I know Dante.”
“So do I.”
“Yes,” I said, gripping the phone so tightly my fingers ached. “And that is exactly why you need to let me do this. If you come with me, and he sees us together, he’ll get defensive before either of us can get it out.”
Ricardo went silent.
I hated that silence. I hated knowing I had reached him by talking about his son.
Then he said, “And if he is angry?”
“He will be.”
“And if he says something that hurts you?”
My throat tightened.
“Then I will handle it.”
He did not like that either.
I could almost see him on the other end of the line, jaw set, eyes hard, every protective instinct in him straining to come out. But eventually, he gave me what I asked for.
“Call me after,” he said.
“I will.”
Now Dante is at my door, and my stomach is somewhere near my knees.
I smooth my hands down the front of my sweater, take one breath, and open it.
Dante stands in the hallway in dark jeans and a black jacket, his hair damp from the soft drizzle outside, his expression already wary.
He knows me too well.
“Hey,” he says slowly.
“Hi.”
His gaze moves over my face. “You sounded weird on the phone.”
“I did?” Hell, I sound weird now.
“Yes. Very.” He steps inside when I move back. “Like you were about to tell me someone died or ask me to help you move furniture.”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. It's weak and thin.
Dante gives me a look at that.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
His eyes narrow.
I close the door behind him. “Something happened, but no one is hurt.”
“That is the sentence people say before they tell you something terrible.”
“It isn’t terrible.”
“To whom?”
I look at him.
He looks back.
For a moment, I see the boy I met in Naples, too handsome and too restless, making jokes in three languages and pretending he did not carry loneliness so easily.
I see the friend who answered my call after years of silence.
The man who came for me when I finally admitted I needed help.
The person who folded me back into his life as if I had never hurt him by disappearing.
My eyes burn.
Dante’s face tightens. “Jules.”
“I’m fine.”
“Clearly.”
“I am.”
He takes a step closer, concern overtaking suspicion. “Did Harrison contact you?”
“No.”
“Your father?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I turn toward the living room because standing in the entryway feels unbearable. “Come sit down.”
“Julia, tell me what's going on.”
“Dante, please.”
He stops.
My voice must tell him something, because the irritation leaves his face, and something more guarded takes its place.
He follows me into the living room but does not sit. He stands near the end of the couch, waiting.
The same couch he slept in my first night in the city when I was too embarrassed to tell him I didn't want to be alone, but he knew it anyway.
I sit because my knees feel weak.
He watches me for two seconds, then sits across from me in the armchair.
I press my hands together in my lap.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
“No kidding.”
My mouth trembles.
His expression softens immediately. “Sorry. Tell me.”
I look down at my hands.
There are careful ways to say this.
There are polished ways.
I cannot do that to him.
I have to just say it.
“I’m seeing your father.”
Utter and complete silence.
I lift my gaze.
Dante is staring at me.
His face empties of all expression first. Then the shock comes through, sharp and unmistakable.
“What?”
“I’m seeing Ricardo,” I say, my voice barely steady. “Your father.”
He stares at me as if he has misheard.
Now comes disbelief.
Then he stands so fast the chair knocks back against the wall.
I flinch.
Dante sees it, and pain flashes across his expression before anger burns over it.
“My father,” he says.
“Yes.”
“My father.”
“Yes.”
“No.” He laughs once, harsh and stunned, and takes two steps away from me. “No. Absolutely not.”
My stomach drops.
“I didn’t plan for this to happen.”
“Oh, good. Wonderful.” His voice rises.
I inhale sharply.
His mouth twists as soon as he says it, but he does not take it back.
“How long?” he demands.
“Recently.”
His eyes flash. “Do not insult me.”
I swallow. “About a week.”
“A week.” He stares at me.
“Yes.”
His face hardens into something that frightens me more than his raised voice.
“You've been sleeping with my father for a week, and you're just telling me?”
My throat closes. I nod once.
He turns away, dragging both hands through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
“I wanted to tell you before.”
“Before?” he snaps, turning back. “Before what? Before you decided to sit me down like some poor idiot and break it to me gently?”
“I thought it would be best—”
“If he wasn't here?” he asks harshly. “Is that what you guys decided together?”
I flinch.
“When you and my father sat down and talked about how I would react.” His voice is shaking now, which is worse than the anger. “You decided what would be easier for me. What would make me less defensive. What would make me less of a problem.”
“That's not true. You are not a problem.”
“Then why did it take a week for you to tell me?” His eyes cut to mine. “And I know you better than you think. I know you didn't jump into bed with him. You obviously had feelings first, which you also didn’t tell me.”
I have no answer that helps.
“Dante, please. It’s not like that,” I say desperately.
His face goes pale beneath the anger.
He points toward the door, toward the city. “I brought you here.”
“I know.”
“I brought you into my family.”
“I know,” I say, practically in tears at the betrayal I can feel pumping off him.
“I told Mario to hire you. I vouched for you. I told them you were smart and loyal and trusting.” He spits out the last word. “I put you in my father’s life.”
My eyes sting.
“I know.”
“You know.” He repeats it with a bitter laugh. “You keep saying that like it fixes anything.”
“It doesn’t.”
“No, it really doesn’t.”
He starts pacing, crossing the living room in three long strides, then turning back. He looks too big for the room suddenly, too full of hurt to be contained by my little apartment and its careful furniture and untouched wine.
“My father,” he says again, quieter now. “Of all people, Julia.”
“I didn’t choose him to hurt you.”
“But you did anyway.”
The words slice through me.
I nod because I will not make him drag honesty out of me.
“Yes.”
He stops pacing.
Something in his expression breaks.
It would be easier if he only looked angry.
“You chose him,” he says again, but this time it sounds less like an accusation and more like he is forcing himself to understand it.
“I care about him.”
His eyes close.
I hate myself for saying it.
I hate myself more because it is true.
“Do you have any idea what that does to me?” he asks.
“I’m trying to.”
“No, you’re not. You’re sitting there hoping if you’re sorry enough, I’ll be noble about it.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?” he demands. “Permission? Forgiveness? Do you want me to say it’s fine because I love you and I love him and that means I should swallow whatever this is?”
“No.”
“Good, because I can’t.”
My hands are shaking in my lap.
He looks at them, then away, like seeing my fear makes him even angrier.
“I told you things about him,” he says, jaw clenched.
A cold feeling spreads through my chest.
“Nothing I would ever use.” I stand now and take a step toward him.
His head snaps back toward me. “Bullshit.”
I freeze in place.
The accusation hurts worse than his anger.
“Dante, I would never—"
“I told you things because you were separate,” he says, voice rough. “You were mine. My friend. My family. The person I could talk to when everyone else was Conti first.”
My throat burns.
“I still am,” I say, hoarse.
“No.” He shakes his head hard. “You don’t get to say that now. It’s not true anymore.”
The words hit me so hard I can barely breathe.
He takes another step back from me and slices me in two.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asks.
I cannot answer.
“I can see it now.” His mouth twists. “Little things. The way he asked about you. The way you got quiet when his name came up. The way you both probably thought you were being subtle.”
“We were trying to be careful, trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing would have been staying away from each other,” he snaps. “You were trying to keep me in the dark.”
“No.”
“Yes.” His voice rises again. “Yes, Julia. That is exactly what this feels like. You and my father had your little secret, and I was walking around trusting both of you.”
His anger fills the room.
I deserve it.
“I should have told you sooner,” I say.
“And I should have never brought you near my family.”
I flinch.
He almost looks like he regrets his words.
His face twists.
“Don’t do that,” he says, shaking his head. “Do not put that on me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You are.” His voice breaks again. “You are making me the thing you’re afraid of, and now I have to feel guilty because I’m angry.”
“No. You don’t.”
“I know I don’t. I shouldn’t have to.”
He presses the heel of his hand against his eye, then drops it.
“I hate this,” he says.
My chest aches.
“I know.”
“I hate that it’s him. I hate that it’s you. I hate that when you called me, part of me was glad because I thought maybe you needed me, and I came here thinking I was going to help you.” He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except there is no humor in it. “And instead I get this.”
Tears blur my vision.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I am.”
“I know you are.” He looks at me then, furious and wounded. “That’s the problem. I know you’re sorry, and it doesn’t change anything. I still want to walk out of here.”
Panic rises fast. “Please don’t.”
His mouth tightens.
“Please, Dante.”
He looks toward the door.
I step forward before I can stop myself. “You are my family.”
He turns on me.
“So was he!”
The shout echoes through the apartment.
I freeze.
Dante’s chest rises and falls. His eyes are wet now, and he looks enraged by it.
“He was my father,” he says, voice shaking.
“You were my best friend. Those were different places in my life. Different loyalties. Different conversations. Different versions of me.” He points at himself once, hard.
“And now what am I supposed to do? Edit myself around both of you? Wonder what you tell him? Wonder what he tells you? Wonder if every time I speak to one of you, it becomes something the other person knows?”
“No,” I say, desperately. “I would never betray your confidence.”
“You already changed the rules without telling me.”
That shuts me up.
He breathes hard, staring at me.
“And what happens if this goes badly?” he asks.
“Tell me. What happens when he hurts you? Or you hurt him? What happens when Sunday dinner turns into a battlefield I didn’t ask to stand in?
What happens when I have to watch my father look at you like that, knowing you used to sit in this apartment with me and tell me things you were too scared to tell anyone else? ”
I press a hand to my stomach.
He sees it and looks away.
“I can’t,” he says.
“Dante.”
“I can’t be happy for you.”
“I’m not asking you to be.”
“I can’t even look at you.”
The tears spill over before I can stop them.
His face tightens with pain, but he does not come closer.
That hurts most of all.
“I need time,” he says.
I nod, unable to speak.
He walks to the door.
Every step feels final.
“Please don’t leave like this,” I whisper.
His hand pauses on the knob.
For a second, I think he might turn around.
He does, but only halfway.
“Do you care about him?”
The question steals my breath.
“Yes,” I say.
His eyes close for a moment.
When he opens them again, he looks exhausted.
“Then I hope it was worth it.”
I flinch again as if he struck me.
Regret flashes across his face, immediate and painful.
But he still opens the door.
“Dante—”
He just shakes his head and shuts the door behind him.
I stand in the middle of my living room, staring at it.
My apartment is silent.
The wine sits untouched on the coffee table. The pillows are still in place. My phone is still face down, waiting for the call I promised Ricardo I would make.
I lower myself onto the couch slowly.
My hands are shaking now.
I told myself anger would be better than distance.
I'm not sure that's true anymore.
What have I done?