Chapter 22
Harlow
A little while later, the maids begin moving quietly across the terrace. Dishes appear, grilled vegetables, chilled seafood, warm bread. Every porcelain plate of antipasti is arranged like an edible mosaic, meticulous, almost too beautiful to disturb.
Bianca sets a plate of spaghetti in front of nonno, and he looks up at her with a smile that’s far too dark, and far too charming, for a man his age.
“I’d have married you for this dish alone,”
he says, his voice gravelled with age but edged with unmistakable warmth.
Bianca arches a brow, unimpressed.
“If I’d ever allowed it.”
He glances up at her, the corner of his mouth curving into something cold and amused.
“I never needed permission. But I’ve learned to conduct myself like a gentleman... eventually.”
Elena exhales a sigh as she reaches for a slice of bread.
“So romantic. I can barely stand it.”
Nonno lifts a hand in mock defence, unbothered.
“What? I’m old, not embalmed.”
Bianca gives him a sidelong look as she turns away, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth.
“You’re something, all right.”
One by one, chairs slide back and bodies ease into place, Giovanni settles at one end of the table, flanked by Enzo and Darion. Niccolò drops into a chair beside Leonardo, the two of them still mid conversation, low voices, sharp smiles, no guns or blades in sight, so we might be safe… for now.
Mario claims his usual spot, one hand on his glass, the other resting casually on the table, but his eyes never stop moving.
Mattia returns with Luka in tow, dragging him by the wrist. Both are slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed with whatever nonsense they’ve been up to. Luka takes a seat two chairs down from mine, Mattia wedges himself between us and starts bouncing in his seat. He flashes me a bright smile before diving into the bowl.
Dante takes the seat beside me and rests his hand possessively on my thigh beneath the table.
Around us, conversation flows easily. Forks clink, drinks glide into crystal, laughter rises in soft waves, punctuated by quiet threats and casual talk of blood, all exchanged without pause or second thought. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not for families like ours.
Sofia closes her eyes as she savours a bite of pasta, sighing.
“This is, without question, the finest spaghetti alle vongole I’ve ever tasted.”
Elena, seated beside her, glances up with a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Do you recall when Harlow attempted to make it herself?”
Sofia lets out a gasp of laughter.
“Dio mio, I’d completely forgotten. She nearly set the entire house on fire.”
I narrow my eyes at both of them.
“Are you serious right now?”
Dante turns his head toward me, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“So, I take it you can’t cook, Mrs. Salvatore? Should I abandon any hope of a homemade pizza?”
I lean in, my voice low, meant for him alone.
“The only thing you’ll ever be eating from me… is, well, me.”
His exhale is slow, his gaze darkening to something molten.
“Then I hope you’re served raw, on your knees, and silent.”
A slow, smug smile curves my mouth.
“I was under the impression that, by now, you’d be well aware, I’m anything but quiet, Mr. Salvatore.”
I pull back with a flutter of lashes, aware of every gaze marking our exchange.
In a light and innocent voice, I say.
“Of course I can cook. One failed dish hardly defines my culinary abilities.”
Elena rolls her eyes.
“She once tried to fry something and managed to melt a wooden spoon into the pan. To this day, I genuinely don’t understand how that’s even physically possible.”
“That happened once,” I state.
Michael doesn’t blink.
“If Harlow steps foot near a stove, the building prepares for evacuation. She could burn water and look proud of it.”
“What can I say? I like to keep you on edge.”
Nonno leans back in his chair.
“I started keeping a fire extinguisher in both the kitchen and the pantry when she visited.”
There’s a pause, brief, but telling. That flicker of pain that crosses his expression at the word visited.
I lived with Carmela, and I only saw him occasionally, the visits growing fewer, then rarer still, until they stopped altogether.
And I know he carries the weight of it, the guilt of having trusted her, of failing to see what was right in front of him.
“All right, that’s quite enough,”
I say, lifting my glass.
“Must I ask why I’ve suddenly become the evening’s preferred target?”
Their laughter ripples through the table as my gaze drifts, until it settles on my brothers, and then on Giovanni.
There’s a shadow to his expression, something elusive. Regret, perhaps. A quiet sorrow lingering in his eyes.
He missed all of this.
The small, unremarkable moments.
The years of teasing, of chaos, of sibling noise and warmth that should have existed but never did.
And despite it all, I understand. More than that, I can even say… I empathize.
He claimed he never knew of me. And for now, I’ve made peace with choosing to believe him.
It can’t be easy, having the choice taken from him. He didn’t walk away, he never even knew I existed.
And now, here I am.
After twenty five years, he has a daughter.
A daughter he never had the chance to raise, to protect, to love.
We are, in every meaningful way, strangers. And yet he was meant to be my anchor.
I push the thought aside.
I learned early not to rely on anyone, and I’ve managed just fine that way. I still don’t need anyone, if I’m being honest.
Or perhaps I only say that, loudly, often, so my heart and mind don’t forget the lesson.
Because, slowly, they are forgetting.
I see my husband.
I see this family.
And they are dismantling the walls I spent years building, one quiet moment at a time.
But the cruel truth is... I’m afraid.
I began to give myself to my husband, fully, without reservation. I let him past my walls, let him touch the parts of me no one else had ever reached.
And where did that leave me?
Bleeding. Shattered.
Listening as he called me nothing more than a Ricci bastard.
It’s stupid that those words still hurt, after everything that’s happened, after all this time.
But they do.
Maybe more because I don’t know if he meant them. If that’s truly what he thinks of me.
And once again, it all circles back to the same truth… I’m afraid.
Afraid to love. Afraid to be loved.
Afraid to reach for something real, only to blink, and find it gone.
Afraid of being burned, the way I was, again and again, from the time I was a child.
I don’t want to think about those years. About Carmela. I’ve left her behind, and I pray she stays there.
She wasn’t abusive. Not exactly.
But she was cruel in her own, insidious way.
How do you say something like that to a child? That you regret she was ever born? That their existence ruined your life.
She made certain I always knew I wasn’t wanted.
Not by her.
Not by my father.
And then came the boyfriends, one after another, a constant rotation of unfamiliar faces passing through our lives.
In the naive, aching hope only a child can hold, I used to wonder if one of them might care. If perhaps, just once, one would treat me like a daughter.
Stay.
Become something close to family.
Care.
But they either looked straight through me… or they looked far too long.
Some were predators, men she invited in without hesitation, without thought, and certainly without concern for what they might see when her back was turned.
Eventually, I learned to keep my distance.
But distancing myself from her meant pulling away from everyone else too, my grandfather, my cousins, the family I was technically part of, but never truly belonged to.
And maybe, in some ways, that was for the best.
I shake myself out of the memories and glance around the table again.
There’s a heaviness in the air now.
A quiet that settles over everything.
I see it in their faces.
Regret in Giovanni.
Remorse in nonno.
Something unspoken in my brothers.
It’s all here. Pressing down on the walls. Thick and suffocating.
***
Later, after the sun slips lower in the sky and shadows stretch across the terrace, they bring out dessert.
A cake, of course. After all, they presumably gathered for my birthday.
No one sings, which comes as a quiet relief.
I’m not sure I could endure it.
The notion of being celebrated feels misplaced, almost unbearable.
Perhaps, in time, I’ll heal. Maybe one day, it won’t feel like this. But for now, even the idea of celebration threatens to unravel me.
Mattia, however, is blissfully untouched by it all, beaming as he devours his second slice of Rocher cake, his favourite chocolates piled beside his plate.
“That’s quite enough, Mattia,”
Dante says, his tone firm but not unkind.
“One more bite, and you’ll make yourself sick.”
Mattia mutters without looking up, his mouth still full.
“I know my limits, papa. I’m not a baby.”
Dante gives him a look but says nothing, and for a moment, the soft clinking of cutlery and low hum of conversation fill the space.
But gradually, the terrace begins to empty. One by one, they slip away, Michael, nonno, Sofia, Elena. I hugged each of them quietly.
Sofia promised to send photos from Paris and, with no small amount of mischief, proudly announced she’d convinced Elena to join her. She also promised to visit again soon, at which point Dante made a sound of clear disapproval, the kind that needed no words to convey what he thought of guests overstaying their welcome.
Now, only Giovanni and my brothers remain, also preparing to leave.
There’s a brief pause, before Giovanni speaks. His voice is low, and laced with something rare.
“It’s good to have you back, Harlow,”
he says.
“Even if not entirely. It’ll take time, but know that we’re only ever a call away.”
I nod, unable to do much else.
Then he turns to Dante, his gaze unmistakably pointed.
“And I know you’re in good hands. If the past few weeks have shown me anything, it’s that your husband remains as insufferable as ever,”
his tone dips darker.
“but he would move mountains for you. And that’s all I need to know.”
He falters, just for a fraction. Then adds, as if the words slip past his pride.
“It’s all any father wants for his daughter.”
Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, sudden and unwelcome.
And what the hell is wrong with me? I don’t cry.
He sees the unrest I’m trying to swallow, and says nothing. Just steps forward and pulls me into a firm, unhesitating embrace. It takes me a moment, but I wrap my arms around his middle, breathing in the sharp assault of his expensive cologne, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
When he steps back, he nods once. The corner of his mouth shifts, barely.
“I’ll visit. More often.”
“Don’t strain yourself,”
Dante mutters dryly.
“We’re already overcrowded.”
I roll my eyes at him, and the look he sends me in return speaks volumes, retribution, simmering and inevitable. And if the heat that coils low in my stomach is any indication… I’ll welcome it. It’s a quiet relief, in its own twisted way, that he’s no longer walking on eggshells around me. Not entirely.
But then the guilt strikes. Sudden. Heavy.
Because what right do I have to feel even a moment of ease?
Not when they were never given one.
“That would be good,”
I say, cutting the thought off before it can consume me entirely. The words surprise me. Him, too, I think.
From the corner of my eye, I feel Dante watching me more intently now. Nothing escapes him, not even the smallest shift in my expression.
Darion steps forward next, his eyes as impassive as ever, his suit somehow immaculate despite the heat.
He doesn’t say much. Instead, he simply pulls me into a hug, quiet, solid, and entirely unexpected.
“You ever need something,”
Darion says.
“You come to us. The house is yours. The door doesn’t close on family.”
I nod, harder than I mean to, because locking it all down is getting harder. Nearly impossible. But I try.
“Thank you.”
Enzo steps in next. He doesn’t say anything right away, just pulls me into a long hug, familiar in a way I can’t quite explain.
Maybe it’s his scent. Aftershave and leather. Maybe it’s just him.
“If you ever, ever, need me,”
he murmurs against my temple, his voice rough.
“don’t hesitate.”
Then Niccolò strolls forward, all easy charm and that familiar gleam of trouble in his eyes.
“Ahh, sorellina,”
he says with a smirk.
“I think I’ll kidnap you, take you back to Palermo. Would do us good, spending some time together, since your fucking...”
He cuts a look at Dante, narrowing his eyes.
“...husband stole you away before we even got a proper few days.”
Dante doesn’t miss a beat.
“Try it, and I’ll make sure you lose a limb. Or better yet, your body will never be found.”
Niccolò’s grin only widens.
“Dear brother in law,”
he drawls, mockingly.
“you can save the theatrics. We all know you won’t kill me.”
“Says who?”
Dante asks, dark and deadly.
Niccolò shrugs.
“Because you’d put a bullet in yourself before you hurt Harlow. And by killing me…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but we all hear the unspoken truth in it. Dante doesn’t respond. Doesn’t deny it, either. I glance at him, brows furrowed. Surely even for him, that level of intensity feels... excessive.
“We’ll visit too,”
I say, finally, voice softer now.
Behind Niccolò, Leonardo opens his mouth, no doubt to say something inappropriate.
“I could kill him,”
he says casually, gesturing to Niccolò.
“She’d never know. I’d take his place. I can act crazy if I try hard enough.”
A blade slams into the wall beside his head with a heavy thud.
Leonardo’s expression tightens, one hand inching toward his holster as he fixes Niccolò with a flat, unforgiving stare. “Really?”
Niccolò grins.
“Next time, I aim closer.”
Giovanni doesn’t even blink.
“If you’re going to ruin the walls, at least make it count.”
I shake my head at all of them, exasperated.
“You’re exhausting.”
“Flattering,”
Niccolò replies, still grinning.
I turn back to Giovanni. I falter… then, before I can stop myself, I step in once more and fold my arms around his waist.
He stiffens, probably from surprise. I’ve never been the one to initiate a hug before. But after a moment, his arms come around me. Strong. Steady. Sure.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He doesn’t respond. But his hand tightens ever so slightly at my back, a quiet acknowledgment, nothing more. We stand there for a moment, neither of us speaking, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, with a faint exhale, he releases me.
Giovanni turns to leave, my brothers falling into step beside him.
My father, I think.
The words still sit awkwardly in my chest… but a little less impossible than they used to.
I watch them walk away, that strange ache returning.
Not pain. Not really.
More like something unfamiliar, stretching in a space that’s never been filled before.
Family.
And for the first time… I’m starting to believe I might belong in it.