Chapter Sixteen AURORA #2
Marco ruffled the kid’s hair with surprising gentleness. “Not today, Damiano. But I’ll tell him you asked.”
The boy’s face fell for half a second before he brightened again. “Tell him I’ve been practicing!”
A grandmother at one of the tables, tiny, silver-haired, with a black shawl draped over her shoulders, called Marco over. She grabbed his face with both hands when he bent down and kissed his cheek with loud affection.
“How is my Santo?” she asked, patting his jaw like he was still a boy. “He eats enough? That man forgets to sit down sometimes. You tell him Guiletta sends her love and that new sweater I knitted. The black one. He better wear it.”
Marco’s ears actually went a little pink. “He’s fine, Signora. I’ll tell him.”
I stood there holding my box of free pastries, watching the whole scene unfold like I’d wandered into some alternate universe. Everywhere we’d gone today, from the lawyer’s office, warehouse, discreet drop-off, tailor and now the café, people had greeted Marco with respect.
But Santino? They loved him. Not the fearful, bowed-head kind of respect I’d expected from a mafia don. This was warm. Familiar. Family.
Santo.
The name kept echoing in my head as we finally stepped back out into the rain. Marco held an umbrella over both of us without being asked, muttering about how I was going to make him late for everything.
I bumped his shoulder lightly. “They all call him Santo.”
“Yeah,” Marco said after a beat. He didn’t elaborate.
“It’s not what I expected,” I admitted, watching raindrops race down the windshield as we climbed back into the SUV. “I thought it would be fear. Guns. People crossing the street when they see you coming. But it’s… this.”
Marco started the engine, the wipers sweeping steadily. For once, he didn’t look irritated. Just tired in a different way.
“Santino grew up here,” he said quietly. “Before everything. A lot of these people knew his mother. Knew him when he was just a kid trying to keep his family together. They remember the boy. Even after he became… what he is.”
I turned the warm pastry box in my lap, the scent of sugar and vanilla filling the car. My chest felt strangely tight.
“He’s not just a monster to them,” I murmured.
Marco glanced over at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “He’s never been just one thing, Aurora. Not to any of us.”
The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the SUV as we pulled away from the bakery.
I turned the warm pastry box over in my hands, the scent of vanilla and fried dough filling the quiet space between us.
Marco drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him all day.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way Signore Brunetti had called him Santo. The little boy’s hopeful face. The grandmother’s affectionate scolding.
“Was he always like this?” I asked softly, before I could overthink it.
Marco didn’t pretend not to know who I meant. He let out a long, tired sigh, the sound of a man who’d answered this question more times than he cared to count.
“Not exactly,” he said after a beat. “He was always intense. Always protective. But back then… it was different.”
I waited, watching the city lights blur through the rain-streaked window.
Marco’s mouth twitched, like the memories were pulling a reluctant smile out of him.
“There was this one time… Him and Angelo, they were maybe fifteen. They switched places for an entire week to mess with everyone. Same face, same build, but Angelo was the chaos gremlin and Santino was the one who actually thought things through. Angelo convinced half the neighborhood that Santo had developed a sense of humor. Santino nearly lost his mind trying to undo the damage after.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Did anyone notice?”
“Their nonna knew right away. Grabbed Angelo by the ear in the middle of dinner and said, ‘I changed your diapers, boy. Don’t insult me.’ Santino stood there trying not to laugh while Angelo got lectured for both of them.”
The image hit me so vividly I could almost see it. Two dark-haired boys with matching smirks, one of them always dragging the other into trouble. I pictured a younger Santino, still lethal but lighter somehow.
“Another time,” Marco continued, warming to it despite himself, “Angelo bet Santino he couldn’t jump a motorcycle over this fountain in the old piazza.
Middle of the night. No helmets. Santino, being Santino, took the bet.
Landed it perfectly… and then the bike kept going straight into the water.
Angelo was laughing so hard he fell off the railing.
Santino came up dripping wet, spitting mad, and tackled him right there in the fountain.
Cops showed up. They ran. Soaked. Covered in fountain scum.
Still arguing about whose fault it was the whole way home. ”
I was giggling now, full and bright, the kind of laugh that made my ribs ache. “They sound terrible.”
“They were,” Marco said, and for the first time all day, he actually laughed too. A low, genuine sound that surprised us both. He caught it quickly, clearing his throat, but it was too late.
I pointed at him. “You smiled.”
“Don’t start.”
“You smiled!” I teased. “I saw it. I saw teeth, Marco.”
“I hate you,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth was still fighting to stay up.
I grinned wider, clutching the pastry box like a trophy. “Progress. I’m wearing you down.”
We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the wipers keeping steady rhythm. Then Marco spoke again, quieter this time.
“You make him happy, you know.”
I froze, the laugh dying in my throat. The words landed heavy between us.
Marco’s grip tightened on the wheel, like he regretted saying it. “Shit. I didn’t mean to… Forget I said that.”
But I couldn’t. My heart was beating too loud.
He exhaled sharply. “I haven’t seen him like this since Angelo.”
The words hit like a direct punch to the chest.
I looked out the window, blinking hard against the sudden sting in my eyes. The city lights smeared into streaks of gold and red through the rain. Santino’s face kept flashing in my mind.
His focused expression in the gym this morning, the way he’d kissed my bandaged hand like it was something precious, the raw vulnerability he’d shown me when no one else was looking.
Marco didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
By the time we pulled up to the house, the rain had eased into a drizzle. I felt strangely full and hollow at the same time. Full of stories and warmth and new understanding, hollow with the weight of what it all meant.
I wanted to tell Santino about the little boy who’d been practicing his punches.
About the ridiculous tie I’d picked out for him.
About the way Marco had almost smiled. Stupid, small things.
I wanted to watch his face when I said them.
I wanted to make him laugh, or scowl, or pull me close like he couldn’t help it.
Not because I was trapped here.
Not because my body reacted every time he walked into a room.
Because he had somehow become my person.
The realization scared the hell out of me.
We stepped inside, and I headed straight for the gym before I could talk myself out of it. Marco trailed behind, probably making sure I didn’t get into more trouble.
The moment I pushed open the doors, Santino’s head turned.
He was mid-spar with Matteo, fist pulled back, sweat still pouring down his bare torso. But the second I walked in, everything else seemed to fade for him.
His dark eyes locked onto mine, intense, searching, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment since I’d left hours ago. Matteo was on the mat again, breathing hard, but Santino didn’t even glance down at him.
That look. God.
In that split second, I understood exactly what Marco hadn’t meant to tell me.
Santino’s happiest moments weren’t when he dominated the ring. They weren’t when he ran the city or closed deals or made everyone bend to his will.
They were the ones when I walked into a room.
And I was terrified, because I was starting to feel the exact same way.