Chapter 14 - Carmela #2
Luca's smile widens, and I catch a glimpse of something that makes my blood sing with recognition and terror in equal measure—the same darkness I've been discovering in myself, the capacity for violence that runs in our family like eye color or the shape of our hands.
For me, it's about how much violence I can handle, how much it turns me on when it's administered lovingly by Van.
"The kind that requires very specific skills," Luca says, cutting into his meal with the same casual precision Marco used earlier.
"The kind that makes people disappear so thoroughly that even their nonnas forget they ever existed. "
His eyes meet mine across the table, and I see my own darkness reflected back at me. Whatever I've become during my time with Van, whatever strength I've discovered in submission, Luca recognizes it immediately.
"How thoroughly are we talking?" The question escapes before I can stop it, and I hear the genuine interest in my own voice with a shock that makes me sit back.
When did I become someone who wants details about making people disappear?
But even as I think it, I'm still waiting for his answer, still fascinated in a way that should terrify me but doesn't.
Luca's laugh is soft, delighted, like I've passed some test I didn't know I was taking. "Completely, cousin. As if they never existed at all."
Something shifts inside me, like a door I didn't know existed just swung open.
The good Rosetti daughter who ran away to sell art should be appalled.
Instead, I'm… intrigued? No, that's too mild.
I'm fascinated, and the realization hits me like one of those moments in a gallery when you suddenly see what the artist intended—I'm not just rainbows.
I never was. The darkness was always there, waiting for permission to exist.
Dante slides a piece of paper across the table to Marco, who reads it and nods. The silent communication is seamless, practiced. I wonder what it's like for Dante, trapped in silence but still commanding respect through presence alone.
"The Torrinos," Marco begins, his voice carrying absolute authority, "have become bolder since your father's death. The attack at your gallery last month wasn't random."
My chest tightens. Van's hand finds mine under the table, and I draw strength from his steady presence, from the fact he didn't run screaming from the table when he learned what my cousins do for fun.
I take a sip of wine, letting the rich Barolo coat my tongue while I process this. The restaurant sounds filter back—soft jazz, the clink of silverware from the main dining room, normal people having normal dinners while we discuss territorial warfare over handmade pasta and rare steak.
"They think the New York family is vulnerable," Sofia adds, and there's something almost eager in her tone. "They're wrong, of course. But perception matters in our world."
I catch Van glancing at me.
"Which is why," Marco continues, "Domenico asked us to ensure your protection while you're in Chicago. Family looks after family."
"I'm looking after her," Van growls.
Marco pauses with his wine glass in midair. "Nobody in this family acts alone."
I scoff. That's exactly the kind of attitude I was running away from.
I take a sip of wine, letting the rich Barolo coat my tongue while I process this.
The restaurant sounds filter back—soft jazz, the clink of silverware from the main dining room, normal people having normal dinners while we discuss territorial warfare over handmade pasta.
Dante slides another note, this time to me.
His handwriting is elegant, precise: You're brave to run. Braver to come back.
Something warm unfolds in my chest. He understands. Somehow, this silent cousin understands the war between independence and family loyalty that's been tearing me apart.
"Thank you," I tell him softly, and his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him.
I trace my finger along the stem of my wine glass, watching the light refract through the deep red liquid.
Around us, the restaurant continues its elegant dance—somewhere in the main room, someone's celebrating a birthday, voices raised in off-key singing.
The normalcy of it makes our conversation feel even more surreal.
"The real question," Luca interjects, twirling a butter knife between his fingers with disturbing skill, "is whether we handle this quietly or make an example."
Luca pauses to actually eat something, cutting into his veal with the same precision he probably uses for…
other activities. The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly, but it's heavy with everything we're not saying out loud.
Van's breathing has steadied beside me, his tactical mind probably cataloging every detail for later analysis.
"The Torrinos are like cancer," Luca continues. "Cut out what you can see, but the real danger is what's spreading underneath."
"We protect our own," Marco states, and it's not a discussion. "Van, I assume you're capable?"
"More than," Van responds, and there's ice in his voice that makes me shiver.
Sofia laughs, light and tinkling like champagne glasses. "Oh, I like him. He's not afraid of us." She leans forward, and her sweetness sharpens into something lethal. "Most people are, you know."
The room goes still. Even Luca stops playing with the knife.
The candles on our table flicker, casting shadows that dance across everyone's faces.
I realize I'm memorizing this moment—the way my family looks in candlelight, discussing violence over an expensive meal.
It's beautifully twisted, like a Caravaggio painting come to life.
"Sofia," Marco warns.
"Jesus," Van breathes, and I feel his respect shift, recognizing a predator.
Oh God, I'm actually enjoying this. The thought should send me running, but instead I feel something click into place, like finding a painting's perfect lighting. All those years of being protected from this side of the family, and it turns out I'm not horrified by it—I'm coming home to it.
Dante slides Marco another note. Marco reads it, then looks at me. "You've been establishing yourself in the art world. That's good. Legitimate businesses are useful covers."
"It's not a cover," I protest. "It's my life."
"It's both," Luca says, and for once, his smile seems almost genuine. "That's the trick, cousin. Being real in a world of masks. Most of us forget which face is ours eventually."
There's something haunted in his words.
"Your gallery work," Marco continues, ignoring Luca's philosophy, "will proceed as planned. But with our security. The Torrinos need to see that touching you means war with Chicago."
"I don't want to start a war," I say quietly.
"Too late," Sofia chirps. "They started it when they walked into your gallery. Now we finish it."
Van squeezes my hand under the table. "You don't have to be part of the violence," he murmurs, low enough that only I hear. "That's what they're for. What I'm for."
I look around the table at my cousins—Marco with his absolute authority, Dante with his silent strength, Sofia with her hidden deadliness, Luca with his unsettling energy. This is my family. Not the one I chose, but the one I was born into. And despite everything, they're here to protect me.
"Okay," I say, sitting straighter. "What do you need from me?"
Marco almost smiles. "Just be yourself. The little girl of the Rosetti family. Let them think you're weak, protected, harmless." His eyes glint. "While we handle the rest."
Dante catches my eye and taps his temple, then points at me. The message is clear: You're smarter than they think.
"The funny thing about sunshine," Luca muses, back to playing with the knife, "is that it looks soft and warm. But get too close to the sun, and it'll burn you alive."
"Poetic," Sofia says dryly. "Did you read that in a fortune cookie?"
"I read it in the eyes of the last man who underestimated our family," Luca responds, and his grin is sharp enough to cut.
The words settle into my bones with a rightness that surprises me. Instead of horror, I find myself holding Luca's gaze, drawn by something dark and magnetic that calls to the shadows I've discovered living inside myself.
Under the table, Van's grip on my hand tightens suddenly, his thumb no longer stroking soothingly but pressing hard against my pulse point.
When I glance at him, his stormcloud eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
Not warning—something far more complex. Something that looks almost like hunger.
"Carmela." His voice is rougher than usual, pitched low enough that only I can hear it beneath the restaurant's ambient noise. "Look at me."
I turn toward him fully, and the heat blazing in his expression washes over me like fire.
His hypervigilant surgeon's gaze analyses every detail of my reaction—the way I leaned toward Luca's darkness, the genuine fascination in my voice when I asked about making people disappear, the pulse hammering visibly at my throat.
"You have no idea how dangerous you look right now," he murmurs, his words carrying undertones that make my core clench with sudden, desperate need. "Sitting there discussing murder like it's fine wine, your eyes lighting up when he talks about erasing people from existence."
The raw possession in his tone sends liquid fire racing through my veins, because I recognize this side of Van—the controlled dominance that emerges when something threatens what's his, or when I push boundaries he didn't know existed until I crossed them.
"Does that bother you?" I whisper back, suddenly very aware that everyone else at the table has gone quiet, that this moment of electric tension between Van and me is being witnessed by some of the deadliest people in Chicago.
Van's smile is slow, predatory, and completely unlike his usual controlled expressions.
"Carmela, love," he says, his surgeon's voice carrying deadly precision that makes my thighs clench together involuntarily, "watching you discover your own capacity for darkness might be the most arousing thing I've ever experienced. "
The confession strikes me like lightning, because this is Van admitting that my darkness doesn't scare him—it turns him on. That seeing me fascinated by Luca's lethal capabilities makes him want to drag me somewhere private and show me exactly what kind of games we could play together.
Around us, I'm dimly aware of my cousins watching this electric exchange with varying degrees of amusement and calculation. But all I can focus on is the way Van's possessive hunger makes me feel simultaneously claimed and free, like he's not trying to contain my newfound steel but celebrate it.
"Sir," I breathe, and the word comes out sounding like a plea.
His grip on my hand becomes almost painful, grounding me to him even as I feel myself pulled between two magnetic forces—Luca's recognition of shared darkness, and Van's appreciation of everything I'm becoming.
"We're leaving," Van says suddenly, his tone carrying absolute authority that brooks no argument. "Now."
The command sends heat spiraling through me, because this is Van as I've never seen him. Not just protective, but hungry in a way that suggests our evening is far from over.