Chapter 2
KATERINA
I smooth the black dress over my hips.
My reflection stares back, composed, controlled, diplomatic.
The mask I've perfected over years of walking between two deadly families. Don Lorenzo Dante would have approved.
He always valued composure and control above all else.
"Show nothing," he once told me, his voice like gravel, "and they can take nothing from you."
I blink back the sting in my eyes. Lorenzo wasn't warm but he was fair.
When my brother, Pyotr, and I arrived at the Dante home as little more than glorified hostages disguised as diplomats, it was Lorenzo who saw my potential, who gave me responsibilities beyond my station.
Who trusted me when others saw only a Russian liability. Especially when I arrived pregnant and refused to name the father.
Now he's gone, blown to pieces in his car, and the fragile peace between the Dantes and the Bratva threatens to follow.
My phone buzzes. Pyotr again. Third time today.
I silence it without looking.
Whatever my brother wants, it can wait. Today belongs to Don Lorenzo Dante.
I reach for my pearls. The clasp clicks into place just as my door swings open.
"Mama, is it time to go yet?" Enzo, my sweet, albeit a handful, six-year-old son rushes in. His small hands smooth down his little black suit jacket. "I'm ready."
I turn to him, my heart swelling with so much love, and yet fear because of the world we live in.
"I even combed my hair," he points out, reaching up to touch the brown strands he's clearly attempted to tame himself. A few rebellious pieces still stick up.
I crouch down to his level, balancing carefully in my heels. "Enzo, we talked about this. You're staying here with Mrs. Russo today."
His gray eyes, Dante eyes, cloud with disappointment. "But I want to say goodbye to Nonno Lorenzo too."
"I know you do." I straighten his collar. How do I explain that I can't bear the thought of him at a funeral where unknown dangers might lurk?
That whoever planted that bomb might be watching?
"You said it's important to show respect," he argues, his little jaw setting stubbornly. "That's what the Dantes do."
I swallow hard.
Six years old and already, he speaks of the Dantes as if he belongs to them, which he does, though he doesn't fully understand how. No one but I knows the truth.
"Some goodbyes aren't for children," I say gently. "And today might be… complicated. There will be many strangers there."
"I'm not scared." His chin lifts defiantly.
"I know you're brave." I cup his face between my palms. "But this time, I need you to be brave by staying here where it's safe."
"But—"
"Please, Enzo." My voice edges toward annoyance. "For me."
He studies my face with an intensity no child his age should possess.
Finally, his shoulders slump in resignation. "Can I at least wear my suit for a little while?"
I pull him close. "Of course you can, my little prince. There will be a reception here later. You can attend that."
When I release him, his small hand reaches up to touch my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn't realize had fallen.
"Don't cry, Mama," he says, puffing up his chest. "I'll protect you when you get back."
"Thank you for understanding," I say, straightening his already-perfect tie. "You know I wouldn't ask this of you unless it was important."
"I know." His voice is small but dignified. "Is it because of the bad men who hurt Nonno Lorenzo?"
My breath catches. Children hear everything, understand more than we give them credit for.
I won't lie to him. I never have.
Well, except the one question about his father.
But… "Yes. When something like this happens, we need to be extra careful."
Enzo's brow furrows with the concentration of someone trying to be brave beyond their years. "Will you tell him goodbye for me? Tell him I practiced piano like he showed me."
Don Lorenzo may have been cold to most, but he always had time to sit with Enzo at the piano in the formal living room, guiding his small fingers over the keys with surprising patience.
Lorenzo’s kindness toward me and my son, Enzo, always made me wonder if he knew the truth… But I never asked, and he never said.
"I promise." I stand, smoothing my dress.
Enzo throws his arms around my waist in a sudden, fierce hug. "Come back safe.”
I stroke his hair. "Always."
Then in a flash, he runs out of my room as quickly as he arrived. I smile, remembering how scared I was to learn I was pregnant and feared what my family would do, what Don Lorenzo Dante might do.
Raising him alone has meant countless nights of doubt, wondering if I'm doing enough, being enough. But in moments like this, I know we're getting something right, him and me against the world.
If only that world weren’t about to get much more complicated.
I take one last look in the mirror, straightening my shoulders.
Today, I'll bury the closest thing I've had to a father.
Today, I'll stand with the Dantes against whispers of Bratva involvement. Today, I'll face…
Luca.
The name I don't allow myself to speak aloud anymore slips through my mental defenses.
He'll likely be there today, the prodigal son returned.
I close my eyes, willing my heartbeat to steady. Seven years should be enough to forget a man. It hasn't been.
Nearly an hour later, The church looms before me and my brother Pyotr.
His hand rests on my lower back as we climb the steps. He was unusually quiet on the ride over.
"Are you alright?" I ask quietly.
"Fine." His eyes dart around the crowd gathering outside. "Just surveying the battlefield."
I flinch at his choice of words. "This is a funeral, not a war council."
"Same thing in our world, Sister." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "One man's grave is another man's opportunity."
I pull away slightly, disturbed by his callousness. Sometimes, I don’t recognize him anymore.
Inside, the church fills with black suits and veiled faces.
The Dante family occupies the front pews.
Alessandro stern and imperious in his new role as Don, Adriano brooding beside him, Valentina straight-backed and dry-eyed.
I search for a face I both dread and long to see, but Luca isn't among them.
Relief and disappointment wage war in my chest.
We take our seats several rows back, the invisible line between family and associates clearly drawn.
Despite seven years under the Dante roof, I remain what I've always been, a bridge between factions, necessary but not quite belonging.
The organ begins its mournful dirge. I close my eyes briefly, steadying myself.
When I open them, I catch Alessandro watching me, his gray eyes assessing.
I meet his gaze without flinching.
Whatever suspicions swirl about Bratva involvement, I had no part in them.
He inclines his head slightly before turning away. A tiny acknowledgment, but I'll take it.
"Half the Russians in New York showed up," Pyotr whispers, leaning close. "Smart move, paying respects while sizing up the new leadership."
I scan the crowd, recognizing several Bratva captains. "Or perhaps they genuinely respected Don Lorenzo."
Pyotr's laugh is soft and bitter. "No one respected Lorenzo. They feared him."
The casket appears at the entrance, carried by six pallbearers.
As it passes our row, I bow my head, a lump forming in my throat.
Will Luca return now that his father is gone?
The thought sends the usual twisted emotions through me, anger and longing tangled together in a knot I've never managed to untie.
Seven years without a word.
Six years raising his son alone, fabricating stories about a father. Seven years of telling myself I'm over him.
One look would unravel it all, I fear.
One look at those storm-gray eyes, and I'd be twenty again, foolish and in love with a man who could walk away without looking back.
An unexpected laugh bubbles up, silent but sharp, and I press my fingertips to my lips to catch it.
The absurdity strikes me.
Worrying about Luca daring to return to a family he so easily discarded.
As if I should spare a single thought for the man who walked away without a backward glance.
"Something amusing?" Pyotr murmurs, his eyebrow raised.
I compose my features instantly. "Just remembering something the Don once said."
The priest drones on about eternal rest and forgiveness. I wonder if Lorenzo found either in his final moments, when fire and metal tore through his car.
Did he have time to regret? To pray? To think of his children?
I straighten my spine, remembering my place. I’m here to represent stability between empires balancing on a dangerous edge.
Alessandro catches my eye again, his gaze calculating.
I maintain eye contact just long enough to show respect without challenge. The delicate dance of power never ceases, not even for death.
I think of Enzo, and of this world I’m having to raise him in. The thought of anything happening to him…
No. I won't allow fear to consume me.
I've survived this far.
Protected him this far.
Whatever comes next, even if it’s Luca’s return, I'll face it. I've built a life for my son. One man's return won't unravel everything I've fought for.
Even if that man is Enzo's father.