Chapter 29 Liana
"The Benedettis are gone."
Papa makes the announcement at breakfast like he's commenting on the weather forecast, casual and matter-of-fact.
I look up from my coffee, the cup halfway to my lips. "Gone?"
"Roberto and his family left the city. Their operations are completely dismantled. Warehouses closed and emptied. Contracts dissolved. Suppliers redistributed to other families." He butters his toast carefully. "It's over."
Mama crosses herself with genuine relief. "Thank God. I've been worried sick."
Gia looks at me across the table, raises a knowing eyebrow.
I keep my face carefully neutral, giving nothing away. "Good. That's good news."
"Yes." Papa takes a bite of toast. "Santino Marcello did what needed to be done."
Hearing Papa say it out loud makes it undeniably real.
"He eliminated a threat to this family," Papa continues, his tone carrying grudging respect. "Quickly. Efficiently. Thoroughly. I can respect that kind of execution."
"Very old mafia of him," I mutter into my coffee cup.
"Liana." Mama's voice is soft and reproachful. "You should be grateful."
"I am grateful." I set down my cup with more force than necessary. "Grateful the Benedettis are gone. Grateful I don't have to worry about them coming back for revenge. I have work to do." I leave before anyone can argue or ask more questions I don't want to answer.
My bodyguards are waiting outside the dining room, professional and alert. They fall into step behind me as I head toward the garage.
"The port?" Alessandro asks quietly.
"Yes."
We drive through the morning traffic. I stare out the window, watching the city pass by in a blur. Try not to think about Santino. Try not to think about the fact that he destroyed an entire crime family in less than a week and disappeared from my life.
No calls. No texts. No attempts to see me or explain himself.
Just silence.
Of course, Papa did tell him he wasn’t allowed to see me again, so there’s that. Santino could’ve found a way to contact me though. If he truly wanted to see me again.
Instead, he did his mafia duty. Eliminated the threat that made him look weak. Saved face after his fiancée was kidnapped on his watch.
Can't have people thinking Santino Marcello is weak or incompetent. Can't have other families wondering if he can protect what's his.
He destroyed the Benedettis systematically and brutally. Not for me personally. For his reputation. For his standing in this world.
When we arrive at the port, I head inside, determined to focus on work. But I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is why Santino didn’t fight harder for us.
For me.
I work late, hours past sunset. I’m not afraid since my bodyguards stay posted outside my door. I'm in the middle of reviewing shipping manifests, when there's a knock on my door.
"Come in."
Alessandro enters, carrying a large wicker basket that looks expensive and elegant.
I frown. "What's that?"
"The basket just arrived for you. We checked it thoroughly. It's safe." He sets it on my desk with care. "From Marcello."
"What?"
"Santino Marcello sent it. About ten minutes ago." Alessandro looks faintly amused. "Should I leave you to open it in private?"
"Yes. Please."
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I stare at the basket like it might explode. It's elegant and expensive-looking, the kind of thing you'd see at a high-end picnic in the Italian countryside.
I pull off the lid with trembling hands. Inside is a perfectly cooked steak from Marconi’s, still warm, the smell making my mouth water. Twenty-four ounces, medium-rare, exactly like the one from Marconi's that first night.
Next to the steak are four desserts arranged beautifully. Tiramisu. Cannoli. Chocolate torte. Panna cotta. The exact desserts I ordered for Santino, then ate them all myself.
A whole bottle of expensive cognac and a crystal glass that catches the light.
Silverware wrapped in a linen napkin.
Everything from our first date. The date where I ate nothing but lettuce while he enjoyed this exact meal.
And then—I see it.
A small photo frame. Silver. Elegant. Museum-quality.
Inside the frame is a professional photograph of a white plate with two pieces of plain lettuce.
Just lettuce. Nothing else. Artfully photographed.
And underneath, a small engraved plaque: "In memory of the salad."
I laugh. I can't help it. I actually laugh out loud, the sound echoing in my office.
It's absurd. Ridiculous. Completely insane.
And it's absolutely perfect.
There's a card tucked beside the frame. I open it with shaking fingers.
"No lettuce. You should eat a real meal this time. -S"
I sink into my chair, still staring at everything.
He remembered everything. He remembered the stupid lettuce. The way I kept trading him bites of steak for pieces of salad. He remembered the desserts we shared, or rather I ate.
He remembered all of it.
Is he apologizing? Making a joke? Trying to make me smile?
I don't know what this means.
I eat the steak slowly, savoring every bite. All of it.
Then all four desserts, one after another. When I’m finished, I pour myself a glass of the cognac and sit there, staring at the framed lettuce photo.
What is he doing?
Later that night, I fall asleep when the same question on my mind.
Then the next day, another delivery arrives at the house after I return home from the port.
This time it's a different kind of gift basket—gourmet snacks, fancy chocolates, artisanal crackers, the kind of thing you'd eat while binge-watching TV.
Another card.
"For your next reality TV marathon. P.S. You were right about Madison. -S"
I stare at the card, reading it three times to make sure I'm seeing it correctly.
He watched the show. He actually sat down and watched the episode I rambled about. When I was eating his steak and going on and on about Brittany and Madison and Tyler.
He watched it. He actually watched it.
"What is that?" Gia asks from my doorway, making me jump.
"Nothing."
"That's not nothing." She walks over with purpose and picks up the card, reading it. "Oh my God. He watched the show?"
"Apparently so."
"Liana." She sits on the edge of my desk, studying my face. "What is happening here?"
"I honestly don't know. He hasn’t contacted me."
"He sent you a steak dinner yesterday. Now snacks. What's next?"
"I have absolutely no idea."
I'm smiling. I can't help it, can't stop the grin spreading across my face.
Gia notices immediately. "You're falling for this. He’s getting to you. Sly devil."
"I'm not—"
"You are." She grins back at me. "He's wooing you. And it's working."
"It's not working."
"Liar." She stands and heads for the door. "But for the record? I think it's sweet. In a completely bizarre, only-Santino-would-do-this kind of way. I’m impressed. Think about giving him another chance."
I look at the snack basket, at the card I'm still holding.
What is he trying to tell me?
The next morning, I’m at the port office reviewing contracts when Alessandro walks in, trying very hard not to smile. "Another delivery." He sets down a box on my desk, his lips twitching.
I open it slowly. Inside is a water gun. Bright blue. Child-sized. Completely ridiculous.
The card: "Safer for my crew. -S"
I burst out laughing again at his silliness.
The gun incident. When I grabbed his weapon in his office and waved it around like I didn't know what I was doing, like I'd never held a gun before.
He's making fun of himself. Of the fact that I completely fooled him.
Alessandro is definitely smiling now. "A water gun?"
"It's a joke."
"I'm sure it is."
He leaves me with the ridiculous water gun and I can't stop grinning like an idiot. This is insane. Santino Marcello is sending me joke gifts and I'm sitting here laughing like a teenager.
The next delivery arrives while I'm in a meeting with suppliers. When I get back to my office, there's a box on my desk waiting for me. Inside is the most beautiful pair of driving gloves I've ever seen in my life.
Soft leather, perfectly crafted, expensive enough that I can tell just by touching them. The kind of thing you'd wear while driving a luxury sports car.
The card: "So you can drive yourself. At whatever speed you want. Want to drive my car? -S"
I sink into my chair, staring at the gloves.
His car.
The night I jumped out because he wouldn't stop, wouldn't let me have control.
He's offering to let me drive now.
His prize Maserati. The one he loves more than most people. He's offering to let me drive it.
"Okay," I say out loud to my empty office. "What are you doing, Santino?"
My phone buzzes immediately. Gia.
Gia: Any gifts today?
Me: Driving gloves.
Gia: ???
Me: He's offering to let me drive his car.
Gia: THE Maserati? The one he never lets anyone touch?
Me: Yes.
Gia: Liana. He's in love with you.
I stare at the message, my heart pounding. Is he? Or is this just guilt? Just trying to make amends for failing to protect me?
Me: It's not love. It's guilt.
Gia: You don't send someone four days of increasingly personal gifts out of guilt. You do it because you care.
Gia: The question is: do YOU care?
I look at the driving gloves in my hands. At the water gun on my shelf. At the funny framed lettuce photo I haven't been able to throw away.
Do I care? God help me, yes. I care deeply.
I've been angry and hurt and convinced he only destroyed the Benedettis to save face, to protect his reputation. But these gifts, they're not about saving face or reputation.
They're about me.
The one who ate his steak and rambled about reality TV and grabbed his gun and jumped out of his car.
He's showing me he saw all of it. Remembered all of it. Maybe even loved all of it.
Me: I don't know what to do.
Gia: Yes you do.
Gia: You fight for what you want. Just like you always have.
Gia: The question is: do you want him?
I set down my phone and look around my office. At the life I've built. The business I'm running. The independence I've fought so hard for.
This is what I wanted.
I want him too.
I want Santino. The real Santino. The man who destroyed an entire crime family because he couldn't stand the thought of me being in danger.
Maybe it's my turn to fight for us.