14. Dante
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DANTE
When the private elevator doors opened to our apartment, Raphael was already waiting, his face breaking into a wide smile that made the week’s degradations worth enduring.
“Dante!” He crossed the foyer, giving me an enthusiastic hug. “I didn’t think you’d make it back from your business trip tonight.”
I returned his embrace, resting my chin on the top of his head.
He was growing too fast, already reaching my shoulder at fifteen.
His jaw was beginning to lose its childhood softness.
If I succeeded, he would never know the price I paid for his innocence.
“My meetings wrapped up early, so I caught the first flight back.”
Lies came easily after years of practice, but it hurt having to tell so many to my brother. He believed I worked at Salvatore’s legitimate businesses while attending college.
Raphael didn’t know the real reason I couldn’t see him last week.
Commissioner O’Malley’s wife had discovered his brothel visits and forced him to choose between his marriage and his vices.
Salvatore couldn’t afford to lose access to the man keeping the police blind to our family’s crimes.
I paid the physical price for the lost revenue when O’Malley stopped coming.
Mrs. Ferretti looked up from her tablet in the living room doorway. “Welcome home, Dante.”
I gave her a formal nod. She was Salvatore’s primary snitch, a woman best handled with silence.
She closed the protective case on her tablet. “I’ll be in the study finishing the scheduling your father requested. The groceries you asked for were delivered this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” I replied It was a quiet reminder that nothing happened in the apartment without being reported. I waited until she disappeared down the hallway before turning back to Raphael.
“You must be exhausted,” Raphael said. “I can order something if you’re hungry.”
“Actually,” I said, moving toward the kitchen that anchored one end of the vast open floor plan, “I thought we might cook together. It’s been too long.”
His face lit up. “Really? What are we making?”
“How does agnolotti with butternut squash and sherry cream sauce sound?”
“Amazing!” Raphael almost bounced with excitement.
The sprawling kitchen gleamed with wealth and precision.
Italian marble countertops reflected the recessed lighting.
The range with its multiple burners and built-in grill stood like an altar to culinary excess.
Every appliance was top-of-the-line, hidden behind custom cabinetry when not in use.
Salvatore designed the space to impress his unsavory associates.
Cameras monitored our movements from discreet corners of the ceiling. Salvatore was always watching.
“I’ve never made agnolotti before,” Raphael admitted, helping me gather ingredients as I listed them off.
“Then it’s about time you learned.” I arranged the items on the island. “Cooking philosophy says the most difficult preparations yield the most satisfying results.”
It was safer to phrase it as a generalized belief rather than a lesson taught by our mother. Salvatore tolerated vague references to traditions but punished direct mentions of our birth parents.
“Is that why you often choose complicated recipes?” Raphael asked, washing his hands at the sink.
“Partly.” I measured flour onto the marble surface. “Also because good food is worth the effort.”
We worked side by side as I guided him through creating a well in the flour and cracking eggs into the center.
I incorporated the flour into the eggs. “How’s school?”
“I got an A on my last algebra test,” Raphael said with pride. “Mr. Wexley said I have a natural aptitude for math.”
“Of course you do. You’ve always been good with numbers.”
“That’s because they make sense when nothing else does.”
The sentiment resonated with me better than he understood. Unlike words, which had the power to lie, numbers were reliable. Fifteen years since Raphael’s birth. Nine years since we lost everything. Six years since I started working at the brothel. One goal to keep Raphael safe.
“What about your other classes?” I asked.
“English is fine, I guess. We’re reading another bad novel written by some famous guy I don’t relate to at all. History’s boring. I hate memorizing dates of battles nobody cares about anymore.”
I smiled at his teenage assessment. “And what about that debate team you joined?”
“We won against Langford Academy last week. I delivered the closing argument. Coach Fitzgerald said I have a future in law if I want it.”
“That’s fantastic.” The pride in my voice was genuine. The glimpses of Raphael’s normal high school life sustained me through my darkest nights at the brothel.
“What about that boy you mentioned? The one from debate?”
Raphael’s cheeks flushed. “Matteo? Um, he asked if I wanted to see a movie together next weekend.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I needed to ask Father first.” His voice dropped. “I haven’t yet. It probably isn’t worth asking when he’ll say no.”
I kept my expression neutral while my hands worked the dough. “I’ll speak with Father about it. Going to a movie sounds reasonable.”
What Raphael didn’t know was that I would ensure he went out with Matteo by whatever means necessary. Salvatore enjoyed making me beg for those small freedoms, extracting payment in ways that left marks visible only to me. But I’d gladly pay any price for him to enjoy a date with his first crush.
“You think he’ll say yes?” Hope colored Raphael’s voice.
“I can be very persuasive.” The double meaning flew over his head.
I wrapped the dough in plastic to rest. “Now, let’s prepare the filling.”
I showed him how to peel and cube the butternut squash, tossing it with olive oil, salt, and pepper before roasting. While it cooked, we prepared the ricotta mixture with Parmesan, nutmeg, and a touch of honey.
“Not too much nutmeg,” I cautioned as he sprinkled the spice. “It should complement, not overwhelm.”
“Like cologne,” he said with a grin.
I laughed, even as the reminder invoked memories of Renato’s unique one that made my body burn with wildfire lust. “Exactly. Where did you learn that?”
“From you, when you helped me get ready for the winter formal. Will the roasting take a while?”
I checked the squash’s progress in the oven. “Patience creates perfection. You can’t rush good food.”
Raphael leaned against the counter to watch me. “Is that why you’re always so patient with me? Even when I mess up?”
I nodded. “Some things are worth taking time with.”
When the squash was roasted, we combined it with the ricotta mixture, blending until smooth. I divided the rested dough, showing Raphael how to roll it through the pasta machine until it reached the perfect thinness.
“Now for the tricky part,” I said, demonstrating how to place small dollops of filling at regular intervals before folding and sealing the pasta into half-moon shapes, then cutting them with a fluted pasta roller.
Raphael’s first attempts were clumsy, the filling squeezing out from uneven pressure.
I demonstrated again. “Press firmly enough to seal, but not so hard you tear the dough.”
“I’m terrible at this,” he complained as more filling leaked out.
“You’re learning,” I corrected. “No one masters anything on their first try.”
His next attempt was better as the edges sealed more evenly.
“There you go,” I encouraged. “Cooking teaches patience and resilience when things go wrong.”
“Like life,” Raphael observed, placing his completed pasta on a floured tray.
“Exactly.”
We worked in comfortable silence for a while. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered in the darkness, concealing the menacing shadows I lurked in as part of the Gennaro Mafia.
“Dante?” Raphael’s voice was hesitant.
“Hmm?”
“Is it weird I wish I could remember more from when I was younger?” He kept his eyes fixed on his work. “Everything feels so fuzzy when I try to think about the past.”
Raphael had been only six when Salvatore murdered our parents and took control of our lives. His recollection of our real family was fragmentary at best, while mine remained vivid and painful.
“You were very young,” I said carefully, aware of the cameras but unwilling to deny him the connection to our past. “It’s natural that your memories would be limited.”
“Sometimes I have dreams about back then,” he continued, “but I don’t know if they’re genuine memories or things I’ve made up.”
I picked up a pinch of flour, letting it fall through my fingers. “Whether you remember every detail or nothing at all doesn’t change the fact that it happened. You carry those experiences in ways that go beyond memory.”
Raphael abandoned his pasta making, turning to face me. “But what if I forget completely? What if someday, I can’t recall anything from before?”
I stopped what I was doing to give him my full attention. “The most important thing for you to remember is the people who loved you would be proud of who you’ve become. That’s what matters.”
His eyes searched mine, hungry for reassurance. “You think so?”
“I know so. You were loved then. You’re loved now. That never changes.”
He nodded, returning to his pasta. “Is that why you make these recipes? To remember?”
“Yes, because food connects us to our past in ways nothing else can.” My admission felt dangerous but necessary. Raphael needed to know there was more to our identity than what Salvatore had forced on our lives. “Let’s finish these before the dough dries out.”
We returned to our work, Raphael’s technique improving with each piece. After we had filled a tray with agnolotti, I set the water to boil while preparing the sauce.
“Can I help with that, too?” he asked, watching me melt butter in a pan.
“Absolutely.” I handed him fresh sage leaves. “Remove these from the stems and chop them finely.”
As he worked, I added sherry to the butter, letting it reduce before adding cream. The kitchen filled with rich, nutty aromas that transported me back to Sunday dinners in our old home.