Chapter 8
DANTE
I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in five days.
The grit behind my eyes has become familiar. The heaviness in my limbs, the haze that smothers my thoughts by late afternoon. I’ve learned to function like this. Exhaustion keeps the dreams at bay. If I’m tired enough, I don’t dream at all.
A trade I’m willing to make.
The bedroom is empty when I drag myself out of bed. Her side of the mattress still holds the impression of her body, the sheets twisted where she slept. I flatten my palm against the hollow without meaning to.
Still warm.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned.
This is the problem. Every morning I wake reaching for what isn’t mine. Every night I lie beside her counting the distance between us in breaths, in heartbeats, in all the ways I’m failing to hold the line.
And every morning, my body betrays me.
I’m hard. Aching. The kind of need that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the scent of her still clinging to the sheets.
Cazzo.
I throw back the covers before I do something stupid.
The shower helps. Cold water shocking me back into my body, punishing the want out of my blood. I brace my hands against the tile and let the spray beat down on my shoulders.
She’s a contract. An arrangement. A means to an end.
My cock doesn’t care. My body remembers the curve of her hip under the blanket. The sounds she makes in her sleep.
I turn the water colder. Stay under until my teeth chatter and the ache retreats to manageable.
I dress with mechanical precision. Dark suit. White shirt. Sleeves rolled to the elbows because I’ve never been able to think with my cuffs buttoned.
In the mirror, I look like a man coming apart at the seams.
Dark circles. Jaw that won’t unclench. The composure I’ve spent years perfecting fraying at the edges.
Papa looked like this at the end.
I turn away before I can think about that too long.
I make my eggs. Overdone, the way Mama taught me. Standing at the stove, spatula in hand, I’m eight years old again. Her hand guiding mine. Her voice in my ear:
A little longer, tesoro. You’ll know they’re ready when they stop talking to you.
I eat alone at the kitchen island while the house wakes around me.
She doesn’t appear for breakfast. Working in the study, no doubt. Lost in numbers and patterns and whatever conspiracy she’s unraveling in my family’s records.
I should be grateful for her competence.
Instead, I find myself listening for her footsteps. Noting her absence like a missing tooth.
By afternoon, I need a book.
The library has always been a sanctuary. Mama’s space, preserved the way she left it. Her reading chair by the window. Her poetry collection on the third shelf. The faint scent of jasmine that somehow never fades, even eleven years later.
I’m looking for military strategy. Sun Tzu, maybe. Or Clausewitz. Cold and logical enough to drown out the noise in my head.
I stop at the threshold.
She’s there.
Curled in Mama’s reading chair like she belongs there. Bare feet tucked beneath her, shoes abandoned on the floor. Afternoon light spills through the window and catches the copper threads in her dark hair, turning her edges to fire.
She’s holding one of Mama’s books. Poetry. Neruda. The one Mama read to Papa on their anniversary every year. The one I haven’t been able to open since she died.
She doesn’t know I’m watching.
The careful composure she wears like armor has slipped. Underneath it, her face is open. Unguarded. Her lips move with the lines of the poem, and her hand cradles the book’s spine the way you’d hold something breakable.
She’s humming. Low and tuneless.
I absorb the details without meaning to.
She’s made herself smaller in the chair, taking up as little room as possible.
The strand of hair she keeps pushing behind her ear.
The furrow between her brows as she reads.
The curve of her neck where her blouse has slipped, exposing skin that looks soft enough to bruise.
Fuck.
My mother’s reading glasses are still in the drawer beside the chair. She didn’t touch them. Didn’t presume.
She could have. Could have put them on, played at being the lady of the house. She left them where they were. Respecting boundaries I never drew.
My hand locks on the doorframe. Knuckles white. Something seizes behind my ribs, tight and airless, and I can’t make it stop. Can’t look away from her face.
She looks the way I do at three in the morning.
I should announce myself. Break this moment. Put us back on solid ground.
I don’t.
I watch her another long second. Let myself see her for the first time. Just her. Cassia.
Then I step back. Leave without a sound. Don’t get my book.
Romano arrives at three.
Polished as always. Silver hair combed with precision. The image of competent service that’s been his hallmark for decades.
“Don. The Baton Rouge routes need your signature before Thursday.” He sets a folder on my desk. “Weather delays have complicated the timeline, but I’ve arranged alternate transport.”
I review the documents. Everything in order. Efficient. Professional.
I sign where indicated. Hand it back.
Romano doesn’t leave.
His eyes drift to the side table where Cassia’s papers are spread. Her notes in careful handwriting. Color-coded tabs marking pages. Cross-references written in margins.
“I’ve noticed Mrs. Santoro has been spending considerable time with the financial records.” Pleasant. Conversational. “A wife’s place isn’t usually in the business records, Don. Perhaps Maria could find Mrs. Santoro something more appropriate. Charity work. Helping Rosa with the household.”
My fingers still on the desk.
I think about her in the library. The way she’s thrown herself into this work like it’s the only thing tethering her.
“She’s my wife. She can do whatever the hell she wants.”
“Of course, Don. I only meant.”
“Was there anything else?”
A silence.
“No, Don.”
He leaves.
I stare at the closed door. The exchange sits wrong. An itch between my shoulder blades I can’t reach. The exhaustion is making shadows where there shouldn’t be any.
Romano has been loyal for thirty years.
I push the unease aside.
Marco arrives at four for chess.
He sets up the board without speaking. Black for him, white for me. Same arrangement for years. His movements are sharp. Pieces hitting the board harder than necessary.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” He moves his pawn. Aggressive opening. King’s pawn to e4.
“Your move.”
We play in silence. His style has changed. He sacrifices his knight to take my bishop. A reckless trade. Loses material but gains position.
He sacrifices again. His rook for my knight. The board bleeds pieces, both sides depleted.
“That’s a risk,” I say.
“Sometimes you have to risk to gain anything.” He still doesn’t look at me. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? You were born first. The rest of us have to earn what you inherited.”
The words land. I don’t respond.
His knee bounces under the table. Every captured piece hits the side of the board with a sharp crack.
I win twenty minutes later. But he made me work for it. Harder than he has in months.
“You’re getting better,” I say.
Marco’s hand freezes over a fallen pawn. His shoulders lock.
“I’ve been getting better for years.” Quiet. Blade-sharp. “No one notices.”
He walks out. Doesn’t look back.
I sit alone with the scattered pieces. Black and white jumbled together. Pawns and kings lying side by side.
My youngest brother just made a point. I’m not sure I caught it.
Sunday dinner is at six. Non-negotiable.
Mama started the tradition thirty years ago. No business at the table. No phones. No excuses. Just family, gathered in the dining room where we’ve celebrated birthdays and mourned deaths and pretended to be normal.
The dining room fills at its own pace. Gia arrives first, still in scrubs, dark hair in a messy bun. She kisses my cheek.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. When did you last sleep?”
“I’m fine, Gia.”
Her chin drops. Eyes flat. The same face she gives patients who lie about their pain levels.
Nico comes next, phone pressed to his ear. Linen shirt, sleeves rolled like he’s above trying. He ends the call when he sees me watching.
“Business.”
“On Sunday?”
“The legitimate kind.” He grins. “Someone has to make sure we have clean money to wash the dirty money with.”
Renzo appears. One moment the chair is empty; the next, he’s there.
He nods. I nod back.
Marco comes last. Still carrying tension in his shoulders. Takes his seat across from me. Doesn’t look at me.
Gia notices. Her eyes flick between us. She doesn’t ask.
Cassia hesitates at the entrance.
She’s wearing dark green tonight. Fabric that skims her curves without clinging. Simple. Elegant.
It shouldn’t affect me.
It does. My cock stirs, and I hate myself for it.
“Come in.” Gia waves her toward the empty chair. “You’re family now. That means you’re required to suffer through these dinners like the rest of us.”
Cassia’s lips part. Her shoulders drop an inch, the stiffness leaving them for the first time all week.
She takes the seat next to Gia. Across from Nico, who’s studying her with sharp eyes.
Maria serves Sunday roast. Potatoes. Vegetables from Nonna Rosa’s garden. The same meal Mama used to make, served on the same china.
Nico breaks first. “So. Cassia. Dante tells me you’ve been going through our financial records.”
She sets down her fork. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I’m curious what you’ve found.”
“Nico.” Warning in my voice.
“What? I’m making conversation. We can’t discuss business, but we can discuss accounting. That’s math. Math isn’t business.”
Gia rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m charming.”
Marco snorts. “Charming. Right.”
“Something to add, little brother?”
“Nothing you’d want to hear.”
The table goes quiet. Nico’s smile doesn’t falter, but his pupils contract. His chin lifts a fraction.
Cassia clears her throat. “The roast is excellent. Is this a family recipe?”
God bless her. Gia jumps on the redirect.
“Our mother’s. Nonna Rosa keeps it locked in a safe. She won’t share it with anyone.” Gia’s voice goes soft. “She used to make it every Sunday. We’ve kept the tradition.”
“It’s important,” Cassia says. “Traditions like this.”
“Did your family have Sunday dinners?”
A pause. Cassia’s fork stills on her plate. Her gaze drops to the table.
“Not like this.”
Renzo reaches for the bread. Passes it to Cassia without being asked. Their eyes meet. He nods. She takes the basket.
My brother doesn’t pass things to people. Doesn’t acknowledge new additions.
But he passed her the bread.
Dessert is Nonna Rosa’s bread pudding. She brings it out herself, shuffling to the table with the dish held like a holy artifact.
“You too skinny, cher,” she tells Cassia, serving her double. “Eat. A woman needs curves.”
“Nonna,” Gia protests.
“What? I speak truth.” Nonna Rosa pats Cassia’s shoulder. “You a good girl. Good eyes. Kind eyes.” She shoots me a look, half accusation, half warning. “You be good to this one, hear me?”
“Yes, Nonna.”
She shuffles back to the kitchen, muttering about foolish men who don’t know when they got somethin’ precious right in front of they face.
Cassia catches my eye across the table. Cheeks flushed.
I look away first.
She excuses herself after dessert. Work to do. She squeezes Gia’s hand as she goes. Thanks Nonna in the kitchen.
I watch her leave. The sway of that dress. The curve of her shoulder as she disappears through the door.
Nico catches me watching. His eyebrow rises. He says nothing.
Smart man.
I escape to the garden.
The jasmine Mama planted fills the air with sweetness. The bench where Papa proposed sits empty under the live oak, waiting for someone to use it.
I haven’t sat there since she died.
Renzo appears without sound. One moment I’m alone; the next, he’s beside me.
We stand in silence. Brothers who’ve learned not to need words.
“You sleeping?”
“Enough.”
He doesn’t respond. Just looks at me with eyes that see everything.
Eyes that say: I know you’re lying. I’m choosing not to push.
“If you need me.”
Not a question. A statement.
I nod.
He disappears back into the shadows.
When I climb the stairs, my body is heavy with exhaustion. Five days of running on fumes catching up, demanding payment.
She’s in bed. Turned away from my side. The curve of her shoulder visible above the blanket. The dark spill of her hair across the pillow.
I change in the bathroom. Delay the inevitable.
When I slide in beside her, she doesn’t stir. Breathing slow and even.
I lie on my back. The distance between us hums with tension.
I can want her without needing her.
The lie tastes like ash. I’ve been telling myself that for days. It’s bullshit, and I know it.
My eyes are heavy. The exhaustion dragging me under.
I shut my eyes.
And I sleep.