49. Chapter 42
Lorenzo
Usually, I’m not a heavy sleeper. Usually, I don’t nap at all. But curled up on my bed, caging myself around Dash, I sleep deeper and better than I have in a long, long time.
Dash is naked in my arms, lying on his side, his back pressed against my front. Our legs tangle together beneath the cool sheets. His breath is warm on my bent arm, and his hair smells sweet in my face.
He stirs eventually, shifting against me and then turning to blink up at me. His smile is soft and unguarded. “How long did I sleep?” he murmurs sleepily.
I brush his curls from his face. “A couple hours. It’s almost noon.”
He shifts closer, tucking himself against me, and gives a small groan. “I have to go soon.”
I want to hold him to me forever. “Why?”
“I told my mom and grandma I’d get lunch with them at one. And Kenny, because he loves them.”
“Well, can’t let you keep your family waiting,” I say. I remember his fierce grandmother, his intense mother. In a way, they scare me as much as my own family—not that I would tell Dash that.
He mumbles something into my skin.
“What was that, baby?”
The pet name slips out unconsciously, but I don’t walk it back. Even though we’re done with the scene, it still feels right, calling him that.
He picks his head up a bit. “I said, you should come to dinner sometime. My mom’s been inviting you.”
“Even though we’re not really dating?”
Jesus, I want to punish myself for that comment. Where the hell did that come from? I just fucked him within an inch of his life, and it was so goddamn good, better than anything I’ve had recently. And then I had to go and say that we’re not really dating? Can I honestly even say that anymore?
I admit, I want this. I’ve rarely wanted a real relationship, but I might want it with him.
But do I deserve something like that? There’s so much darkness in me, so much history of brokenness, and even if I have no right to question my worthiness of something good, I know without a doubt that Dash deserves something better than me.
His expression shutters, just a bit. “Well, yeah, I know,” he murmurs, though I see the flicker of hurt in his eyes.
Before I can find the words to correct my mistake—I don’t know what they would be, anyway, because we’re not dating, we’re not a couple…we just live together and fuck and talk about our days and support each other—he shifts in my arms and keeps speaking.
“I think you’d like them. They can be a bit wild sometimes, and they’re an acquired taste, but I think you’d like them.”
“Your family?”
“Yeah. What about yours?”
I continue brushing his hair absently. “What about them?”
“I’ve met them, some of them, of course. But what was it like growing up with them? Our families are so different. And, I dunno, I’ve thought a lot about Giovanni recently, but not so much as your brother. I think it’s important for me to think of him like that.”
The question makes me pause. My instinct is to deflect the question, to avoid it. I could answer with something that sounds like vulnerability, and then move on, hoping he doesn’t notice.
But…with Dash, I don’t want to do that.
“Giovanni was always…Giovanni. Even when we were boys, he felt more like Mafia Heir than Brother. I’m not sure if that makes sense…
He was always so serious. So dedicated to the Family.
Aside from that, our childhood was, well, it was a childhood.
I can’t say that it was normal, because it wasn’t.
But is anyone’s childhood normal? We’re all shaped by how our parents raise us up, by their mistakes and their successes.
My parents made plenty of mistakes, and they had plenty of success.
Giovanni and I, we never needed anything.
All of our needs were met. We had a whole staff of nannies and butlers, because Father was rarely around.
Mother, though, she was as present as she could be. ”
Dash twines his fingers in mine. “When did you learn what your family does?”
“I don’t think there’s one specific moment I can point to. It wasn’t a secret. I was just raised in it—like you might be raised in a specific religion or language. By the time I was old enough to ask questions, it was already a deeply rooted part of me.”
A dark part of me. A broken part of me.
Dash nods slightly, his hair tickling my shoulder. “So, like, were you ever allowed to just be a kid?”
I pull him closer, enjoying the warmth of his naked body against mine. “More than you might think. I remember when I was maybe seven or eight, at the birthday party of some capo’s son. I was crying because the boy had taken a toy from me.”
“From you? I don’t believe it.”
That draws a laugh from me. “Believe it. My father pulled me aside, though, afterward. He wasn’t angry, not really, but he was disappointed.
And that’s always worse. He told me that a Diamante man wouldn’t cry over a toy in front of other families.
He said we were better than that. He wasn’t cruel—he never was, not with me—but he had this expectation that we would never, ever show weakness. ”
Dash doesn’t say anything at first. His fingers play absently with my chest hair, and when he looks at me, there’s no pity in his face. Just understanding. “That’s a rough expectation to have.”
“It was a high expectation, for sure.” I sigh. “But my father, he loved me. I never doubted that my entire life. He just believed that love wasn’t enough for the world I had to survive in.”
“Do you think he was right?”
“About?”
“About love not being enough to survive in this world.”
I don’t know if that’s a question I’m prepared to answer honestly. Is love enough? It hasn’t been love that’s gotten me this far in my life.
“I don’t know if my father believed it, by the end. He was changing. The way he acted was different, and I like to think that if he had to do things over, he would’ve taught me that love was more powerful.”
Dash props himself up on an elbow, pushing out of my arms just a little bit, so that he can look into my eyes directly. “That’s not answering my question. What do you think?”
“I’ve never had to ask myself that question before,” I answer, as honestly as I can. Even though it’s still dodging the question, it’s all I can offer him right now.
He seems to sense my reticence, or inability, to talk about it, because he switches to a slightly different topic. But not an easier one. “Did he—your father—ever give you an option to choose this life?”
“No,” I say simply. “Not really. Giovanni and I were both raised to fill these roles. He was raised to inherit everything—though, I suppose, that changed near the end. I wasn’t raised to want anything else.
I was raised to be in complete control of what I could, and to always be useful to whoever was in power. ”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was… and still is, if I’m honest.” I look at him, something in his presence making it easier for me to keep going rather than retreating into silence behind my walls. “Sometimes, I used to let myself imagine what I would’ve done if none of this had been laid out for me.”
“And?”
I shake my head. “I never let myself go there. It felt disloyal, wanting something different than what my father was handing me.”
“You’re allowed to want something different.”
There’s the slightest hint of a suggestion in his voice, or even an offering.
What else could I want? What life, what future, could I build if it was separate from my family’s influence?
It’s not something I’ve let myself think about much…
but I think about it now. Though the last couple weeks have hardly been a break from the darkness of my family business—far from it, actually—they’ve been a glimpse of a different life.
And I can’t ignore that Dash has been an integral part of that. I’m not sure I’d want to imagine a future where he wasn’t there.
“I’m starting to realize that I can want something different. Especially knowing that my father thought about it, too. Maybe when all of this is done, maybe I could take over the Family, and finish what Father started.”
Dash nods. “Whenever this is over, I hope you build something of your own. Whether that’s with the pieces of your Family or completely original, I hope you get that chance. I know it would be magnificent.”
This isn’t like us. Lying in bed, cuddling, talking. For all the things we just did, this feels the most intimate. And this hasn’t been negotiated with checklists and surveys. This is raw and unfiltered, and that almost intimidates me more.
“I should probably get up and shower…again…before lunch with my family,” he says regretfully.
“And I should probably do some work,” I admit.
He rolls out of bed, and I wait only a few seconds before following him to the shower.