We all need some moments pretending we're normal people.
"But Ava can't help her now because Ava lost her fucking husband. She's drowning in her own grief, locked in that room with Riccardo's clothes still hanging in the closet. Vittoria brings her food that goes untouched, sits outside her door talking to silence."
"And your mother? I mean, she's not close to you all now that you're facing hell."
A bitter laugh escapes. "Our mother is hiding in Italy, pretending distance can cure grief. She buried her husband, then her eldest son. She sends Vittoria texts about the weather in Sicily and recipes for sauce, like cooking will fix everything. Like she's not abandoning her only daughter when she needs her most."
Dante shifts in his chair. "Vittoria's strong."
"She shouldn't have to be." The words come out sharper than intended. "She should be in graduate school, complaining about professors and deadlines. She should be living in some apartment with roommates who don't know what our last name means."
I turn from the window. Dante watches me with that careful expression he gets when I'm too close to an edge.
"Instead, she's playing therapist to a grieving widow. Trying to hold together what's left of this family while Pietro starts wars and Nico questions everything and Bruno—" I stop. We don't talk about that. Not yet.
"She manages the family's entire digital security system," I continue. "Monitors our communications, tracks our shipments, keeps us three steps ahead of the FBI's cyber division. Twenty-three years old and she's already seen more death than most soldiers."
"She chose to be next to you all, Lorenzo. She had the choice to live normal but she chose this life instead."
"No." The word cracks like a gunshot. "She was born into it. There's a difference. We all were, but at least we got to be children first. Vittoria lost that early when she watched her father's casket lower into the ground."
I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted.
"So no, Dante. I don't think she's fucking okay. I think she's drowning just like the rest of us, but she's too busy trying to save everyone else to admit it."
Dante nods slowly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sophia
The hours crawl by like they're moving through molasses. I've counted the ceiling tiles three times—forty-two. The dresser has seven drawers.
My stomach growls, but I won't text Lorenzo. Not after throwing bread at his face like some child having a tantrum. Heat creeps up my neck every time I replay it. The shock in his eyes. The way he just... left. No anger, no threats. Just silence.
I pull my knees to my chest on the bed. The phone sits on the nightstand, mocking me. One button would connect me to him, but my pride tastes bitter in my mouth. He called me "kiddo" again.
The lock clicks.
My spine straightens. That's not Lorenzo's rhythm. I've already memorized the way he turns the key, quick and decisive. This is slower.
I stand as the door opens.
Dante fills the doorway, all dark suit and careful movements. His eyes scan the room before settling on me. In his hands, a tray with what looks like a sandwich and water.
"Miss Torrino." His voice carries that particular roughness of someone who's smoked too many cigarettes or screamed too many orders. Maybe both. "Brought you lunch."
He sets the tray on the dresser, movements economical. No wasted motion. This man doesn't do anything without purpose.
"Thank you." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Need to use the bathroom?"
"Yes."
Dante nods toward the door. "Let's go."
I follow him into the hallway, hyperaware of how he positions himself. Close enough to grab me if I run, far enough that I don't feel caged. Professional. Impersonal. Nothing like Lorenzo's presence that fills every room he enters.
