Chapter 31
DANTE
Two weeks in that goddamn bed. Two weeks of Gia hovering and Cassia worrying and my own body turning traitor.
Basta. Enough.
I’m up before dawn, ignoring the pull in my side where the poison tried to finish me. Gia cleared me yesterday with a list of restrictions I’m violating before she’s awake. Light activity. No stress. Rest.
Fuck rest.
The study sits different in the early morning.
Quieter. The whiskey cart I haven’t touched since I woke up because Cassia watches the decanter every time my hand gets near it, those dark eyes tracking me like I’m a threat to myself.
The maps on the wall. Eleven years of blood and territory, right here in this room.
But today I’m not thinking about borders or threats or the Benedetti bastards still circling.
Today I’m thinking about her.
La mia moglie. My wife.
Except she isn’t. Not the way I want her to be.
The first wedding was a transaction. A signature on a contract in this room. She deserved better. She deserves everything, and I’m going to give it to her whether this city burns or not.
I pull open the bottom drawer. The one I never open.
The photograph is faded at the edges, handled too many times by hands that aren’t mine.
Papa kept it here for thirty-four years.
Mama in her wedding dress, white lace against olive skin, laughing at something he said.
Papa beside her, younger than I’ve ever seen him, looking at her like she hung the damn moon and stars.
They married in the garden. Under the iron arch that’s still standing, wrapped in jasmine and magnolia.
I’m going to marry Cassia there. Where it started. Where love built this family before grief tore it apart.
Cosi sia. So be it.
The garden is different in morning light. I walk the gravel paths, taking stock. The arch needs cleaning. The stone bench where Papa sat after she was gone, staring at nothing, waiting to join her.
I stop at that bench. Press my palm to the cold surface.
“I’m not you,” I tell him.
The words scrape out. Raw.
“I’m not going to sit here and die by inches.”
My hand curls against the stone. The cold bites into my knuckles.
The garden doesn’t answer. But something behind my ribs unclenches. A loosening I don’t fight.
“Dante?”
I turn. Nonna Rosa stands at the edge of the path, silver hair pinned back, apron tied around her waist even though it’s not yet seven. She’s been with this family since before I was born. Held me when Mama died and Papa forgot how to be a father.
“You shouldn’t be up, cher.” That familiar lilt, the New Orleans rhythm that sounds like music. “Gia said rest.”
“Gia worries too much.”
“Gia knows what she’s talkin’ about.” Nonna crosses her arms. “You near died, boy. Don’t go pretendin’ that don’t matter.”
“I’m not pretending.” I turn back to the arch. “I’m planning.”
Quiet. Then her footsteps crunch on the gravel, and she’s beside me.
“Here?” she asks, voice low.
“Where else?”
“Oh, cher.” Her hand finds my arm, squeezes. “Your Mama would be so happy.”
I keep my eyes on the arch. My jaw locks.
Cristo.
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Nonna Rosa’s voice thickens. “I was there, you know. When your Papa married her. Right under that arch. She was so beautiful, Dante. Mais, she was shakin’ like a leaf, scared out of her mind. But when she looked at him.”
Nonna laughs. Watery.
“When she looked at Salvatore, all that fear melted away. She knew. Even then. That he was hers.”
I think of Cassia. Walking into my study in that burgundy dress. No fear. No hesitation. Just those steady eyes meeting mine like she’d already made her decision before I’d made mine.
Tesoro. That’s what she is. What she’s always been.
“Your girl reminds me of her,” Nonna says. “Lucia. Not the way she looks, but how she sees. Your mama could look right through a person. See what they were hidin’. Cassia’s got that too.”
“She saw through me from the start.”
“‘Course she did, dawlin’. You ain’t that hard to read when you’re in love.”
I don’t deny it. No point. Not anymore.
“I want it right,” I tell her. “The wedding. What Mama had.”
“She don’t need perfect.” Nonna pats my arm. “She just needs you. Showin’ up. Choosin’ her in front of God and everyone.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then that’s enough.” She wipes her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Now. Let me help you, cher. I still remember every flower your mama carried, every song they played. We’ll make it beautiful. For both of you.”
Heat burns behind my eyes. I blink it back. Grind my teeth until it passes.
“Grazie, Nonna.”
“None of that.” She swats my arm. “Come inside. I’ll make coffee and we’ll figure out what needs doin’. You got a week, and we got work.”
The phone call I’ve been putting off.
I sit at my desk, the photograph of my parents propped against the lamp. Nonna’s gone to inventory linens and flowers. The compound wakes up around me. Voices in the hallway. The smell of breakfast from the kitchen.
I dial Umberto Neri.
Four rings. Five. I’m about to hang up when he answers.
“Santoro.” Careful. Wary. We haven’t spoken since the rushed ceremony. He knows what happened. The poison. What his invisible daughter did. How she traced the conspiracy, handed the evidence to my family, sat at my bedside while I fought to stay breathing.
“Neri.”
Silence. Two men who understand what this world costs.
I don’t ask his permission. I don’t perform the ceremony of respect between families.
“Your daughter is marrying me again. Properly. One week.”
More silence. I hear him breathing.
“The first ceremony was contractual.” I don’t let him finish. “This is a choice. Mine and hers.” I let the words land. “You’ll be there.”
Not a request.
“Dante.” His voice shakes. “She wants this?”
Cazzo.
The question cuts deeper than it should. Because I hear what he’s asking. My invisible daughter. The one I never saw. The one I’d have traded to the highest bidder without a second thought.
She chose this? She chose you?
“She walked into my study the day Elena ran and offered herself in her sister’s place. She uncovered a conspiracy against my family. She sat at my bedside for a week while I was dying.” My grip tightens on the phone. “And when I asked her to marry me again, she said yes. No hesitation.”
I let that sit.
“She chose me. I’m choosing her back. Pubblicamente.”
In front of everyone who ever overlooked her.
The silence shifts on the other end. I don’t care what it holds.
“I’ll be there,” Umberto says. His voice cracks on the last word.
“Sunday. One o’clock. The garden.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hang up.
Ti daro tutto, tesoro. I’ll give you everything.
Starting with a wedding that proves you were always worth choosing.
Renzo arrives at noon.
He moves like a ghost. Silent, contained. Drops into the chair across from my desk without invitation. My brother. My weapon. The one I trust with everything except the truth of what’s happening behind his eyes.
“Where are we?”
He knows what I mean. Romano’s betrayal. The Benedettis. Papa’s death.
“Getting closer.” Renzo’s shoulders go rigid. A micro-shift, there and gone. “Romano was careful. Not careful enough. We’ll have answers soon.”
“Good.”
A pause. His jaw works. He looks past me, not at me.
“Gia’s taking it hard.” His voice drops. “She keeps going through Papa’s medical records. Thinks she missed something.”
“She didn’t miss a damn thing.” The edge in my voice comes out sharper than I intend. “She didn’t know to look for poison. None of us did.”
“I know. She knows too.” Renzo lifts one shoulder, drops it. “Doesn’t help.”
Gia. Dio.
My sister who’s been holding this family together since she was old enough to hold herself. She can’t carry Papa’s death on top of everything else. Not when it wasn’t her fault.
“Anything else?”
“Valentinos are nervous. Luca’s been making calls, testing alliances. Nico’s handling it.”
“And you?”
He blinks. “What about me?”
I study him. My brother who kills without flinching.
Who hasn’t smiled in years. Whose hand drifts to the rosary in his pocket when he thinks no one’s watching.
Today his fingers are still, resting on his knees, but his knuckles are white.
Bloodless. The hollows under his eyes are new.
Or maybe I’m seeing them for the first time.
“You okay?”
“I’m always okay.” Too fast. Too practiced. The same deflection every time, so smooth it’s convincing to anyone who isn’t looking.
“Renzo.”
“I’m fine, Dante.” He stands. The chair doesn’t scrape. He moves that silently. “Focus on getting stronger. I’ll handle the rest.”
He’s gone before I can push. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m staring at the space where he sat.
Fuck.
My brother’s cracking and I missed it. Months. Maybe years. Too busy drowning in my own grief to see his.
I scrub a hand down my face. Press my thumb and forefinger into my eyes until I see spots.
First, the wedding.
Then Renzo. Then the Benedettis. Then every goddamn loose thread this family can’t afford.
One week. The garden is being prepared, the family is being summoned, and Umberto Neri is coming to watch his invisible daughter become a Donna.
La mia moglie has no idea what I have planned.
And Cassia in a wedding dress, walking toward me through Mama’s garden.
Cristo.
I’d burn this city to the ground for that image alone.