Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty Nine
Antonio
I spread the containers out on my kitchen island. Bianca didn’t send one thing. She sent enough for a small army.
A heavy foil pan wrapped in two layers of paper.
A stack of plastic deli containers with her neat handwriting on the lids.
A paper bag that smells like fresh bread.
Another bag that clinks softly—glass jars, probably sauce or something she made ahead.
She didn’t know what Elsa would want, what she could stomach, what would feel comforting after a day like today, so she made the only choice Bianca ever makes.
She sent a little of everything.
I peel back the first lid, and steam hits my face—something slow-cooked, rich, familiar. The kind of smell that says you’re safe here, you’re fed here, you’re not alone here. My heart tightens so fast it almost pisses me off.
Most of them haven’t even met her. Bianca hasn’t met her. All they know is that she’s mine. That I love her.
Because of that, Elsa’s family now too. And Contis take care of our own, no matter what. We don’t take half-measures with our own. We don’t offer support with just words
We show up with hands full, and we make sure you eat, and we make sure you sleep, and we make sure nobody touches what’s ours.
Elsa doesn’t understand that yet, but she will. She’ll understand.
I set out plates, utensils, clean glasses. I find the good napkins—cloth, not paper—because I want her to feel that this isn’t temporary.
My mouth twists at the thought, because the future is the one thing I can’t lock down with cameras and codes and men on corners.
I picture her here—really here. Not just surviving a crisis in my apartment, but living, sharing. Hair damp after a shower. Legs tangled with mine while we watch a movie on the couch. Her laugh in this kitchen while I show her how to cook another dish.
Joy cuts through me so hard it’s almost painful.
I would do anything for her.
Anything.
And that includes New York.
The idea is a sword with two edges. One side is simple: being where she is. Building a life that doesn’t require her to choose between her career and me.
The other side is the ache that comes with what I’d miss.
Sunday dinners that turn into loud arguments that turn into louder laughter.
Luca at the head of the table, acting like he’s not affected while his lips twitch.
Vito making some comment that riles Caterina up, and they both make Nico roll his eyes.
Roberto and Olivia doting over their new daughter, Isabella. The kids underfoot. More on the way.
Erica and Bianca were nearly neck and neck on the baby front, having gotten pregnant so close together. And I know that Luca and Elena are hoping for another soon.
Even the visits from Lucia, who lives in Las Vegas, makes the trip with her husband and two daughters for get-togethers.
I’d miss things. I’d feel it. I already feel it, just thinking about it.
But New York isn’t across an ocean. It’s not exile. It’s a train ride, a drive, a quick flight if we need it. My family would understand. They’d complain, because that’s what we do, but they’d understand.
And I can work from there—some of it, anyway. The tech side. The surveillance. The behind-the-scenes work nobody sees. I can make connections in New York City, too, open some more doors for us.
Hell, if we do it right, we can even push our influence, expand, with patience and brains instead of bullets.
The thought should make me feel powerful.
It does, a little.
I set the last container down and force my shoulders to loosen.
That thought isn’t for today. It’s not for right now. Right now, what matters is what Elsa needs to get through this. She needs warm food, comfort, a simple, easy night.
The bedroom door opens with the softest sound, and I hear her soft steps in the hallway before she appears in the doorway.
My sweatshirt hangs off her, sleeves swallowing her hands, hem brushing mid-thigh, the neckline loose enough that one shoulder keeps slipping free.
The sweatpants sit low on her hips, cinched tight with the drawstring, but there’s still too much fabric, bunching at her thighs and pooling a little at her ankles.
Her hair is still damp, loose, and darker from the water, ends curling slightly against the sweatshirt. Her face is bare, and the lack of makeup isn’t what makes her look vulnerable.
It’s her eyes.
Wide, carrying too much. Like she’s trying to hold herself together with nothing but sheer will, and it’s barely working.
I feel the pang in my heart at that.
I keep my voice low and gentle, careful not to spook her. “Hey.”
She stops just past the doorway, gaze flicking over the kitchen island, the containers, bags, and pans.
“Wow…” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s Bianca.” I gesture to the island. “Come sit.”
She hesitates for a beat, then moves, padding across the floor. She climbs onto the stool like her body is tired.
I slide a plate toward her first, then another to the side for me.
Elsa watches my hands as I open containers.
I peel back the foil pan and the rich, smoky smell hits me—braised short ribs, dark and glossy in a reduction of some kind, the kind of thing that takes hours to make, which means she must’ve started working on it before we were even out of New York.
I pop open a deli container with bright green rapini sautéed with garlic and oil, red pepper flakes clinging to the leaves. There are roasted potatoes, crisp at the edges, rosemary, and sea salt. And a simple arugula salad with shaved parmesan and lemon dressing in a little jar.
The bread is still warm in the paper bag—two crusty rolls and a slab of focaccia wrapped in wax paper.
“Again, wow,” Elsa murmurs, and I hear the faint awe under the exhaustion. “That’s… a lot.”
“Bianca doesn’t do ‘a little,’” I say as I start opening lids. “She does… this.”
I scoop a portion of the short ribs onto her plate, smaller than what Bianca would insist on, and I add potatoes and a little pile of rapini. Then I make my own plate—significantly more meat and potatoes, a massive scoop of rapini. A big slab of focaccia, and I spoon the salad right on top of it.
Elsa’s gaze flicks to the size difference and, for the first time since we got here, something almost normal crosses her face. A faint, disbelieving huff.
“What?” I ask, reaching for the dressing.
She shakes her head once. “Where do you put it?”
“Should I be insulted or flattered?” I put some focaccia on her plate.
“Both,” she says, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
Good. There she is. Even after all of this.
I pour water into two glasses and set one in front of her. “Eat.”
Her brows lift. “Bossy.”
“Persistent,” I correct, then nod at her plate. “Try the rapini with the meat. Trust me.”
She hesitates, then forks up a bite—rapini, potato, a shred of the short rib. She chews slowly.
Her shoulders drop by a fraction.
“That’s…” she starts, then her voice goes quiet. “Perfect.”
I take a bite of my own. The rich, familiar taste hits me. She’s right. It’s perfect right now. Just what we needed.
Elsa swallows, then takes another bite, bigger this time, less hesitant.
I keep eating too, because I know she will if I do. Because if I sit there watching her chew like she’s a patient, she’ll hate it. She needs normal. We both do.
A few minutes pass with nothing but the clink of fork against plate.
She sets her fork down and looks up at me.
“Is there…” She seems to think better of it and shakes her head, picks up her fork again.
“What is it?”
“Never mind, it’s nothing.”
Then I set my own fork down.
“Tell me,” I say.
“It’s not worth it,” she says.
I have a feeling I know what she’s going to say.
“I wasn’t going to bring this up right now.
I was going to let you have a couple more hours of normal, but…
” I wait until she’s looking me in the eyes again.
“I’m sending a couple of guys to your place tonight.
I should’ve had you pack a go-bag, but I didn’t want to scare you any more than I already had. ”
“Antonio, it’s all right. I don’t want to send anyone into danger,” she says.
“Elsa, it’s happening. So, if there’s anything specific you want, tell me, and I’ll relay it. I also have them going into Northstar to get your work bag and purse with your phone.”
Despite her initial protests, I can see that she really wants that. She doesn’t want to put anyone in danger, but she really wants her stuff. She feels lost without it.
“Tell me what matters most so nothing gets missed.”
Her throat works. “My passport is in my safe. My mother’s ring is in there too,” she adds, voice sharper, practical now. “I can give you the code.”
“That’s all right,” I say, lips twitching.
She shoots me a look, almost amused. “It’s in the—”
“The back of your closet, behind that tall dresser.”
She hits my arm with the back of her hand. “You snoop.”
“I don’t snoop,” I say, deadpan. “I assess.”
Her eyes narrow, but she’s amused. “Potayto, potahto. I bet you pawed through my underwear drawer too.”
“I resent the use of the word ‘pawed.’ I very carefully and skillfully inspected your underwear drawer. You know, for false bottoms and whatnot.”
Her mouth twitches. “You are such a perv.”
“And yet, you love me anyway. It’s really you with the problem, amore mio.”
I grin, because it feels good to tease her.
Her expression softens, and she sets her fork down, turning toward me on the chair before leaning in and wrapping her arms around my neck. She rests her face against my throat.
I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her close.
She smells like my soap.
“I love you so much it makes my chest hurt,” she says quietly. Her arms tighten around my neck. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Easy,” I say, smoothing a hand down her back. “Just let me love you back. The rest is just details.”
She huffs a small laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is,” I say. “It can be.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes shiny. “You said you’d move to New York.”
“I did.”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” she says, and there’s a warning in it.
“I rarely ever do,” I say quietly.
“I don’t want you to give up your family for me.”
“You wouldn’t be asking me to give them up. I want to be there with you.”
“Ask or not, that's still what it would be,” she says, frustrated. “I don’t want you to resent me. I couldn't handle that."
“I won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can,” I say firmly, gently. “Elsa, I’ve spent my whole life watching men lose themselves.
To power. To pride. To anger. To things that don’t matter.
My own grandfather. So many of my uncles.
” I hold her gaze. “I refuse to be that. I refuse to lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me because of a two-hour drive. ”
Tears shimmer in her eyes, but she blinks them back.
"That's not all it is, and you know it. Two hours might as well be a world away when your family is here."
“My family wants me to be happy.”
"But I want you to be happy too." Her voice breaks, and a tear spills over.
I brush my thumb over her cheekbone. “The only thing I know right now is that the last couple of weeks? Being with you, even with all this? That’s the happiest I’ve ever been. That’s a fact.”
"Me too," she says with a hitch in her words.
“So, for tonight, we don't think about it. We don’t need to decide anything right now, okay?”
She looks at me for a long moment.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
Relief I didn't realize was coiled in my stomach unspools. I lean in and kiss her, slow and deep, letting the kiss spin out, in no hurry for anything but just to have her. The taste of her. The feel of her.
When we finally pull apart, I'm holding her as close as two people can get with their clothes on, and her hands are fisted in the back of my shirt.
“Now eat,” I murmur against her lips. “Or I won’t show you what we have for dessert.”
She mock-gasps, but her lips curve into a smile. “Blackmail? How uncivilized. I thought you were above such things.”
“Where you’re concerned, dolcezza, I’m not above anything.”
She laughs, carefree and real, and the sound fills the room and me.