"A little."
"Don't try to follow every conversation. And don't try to outdrink Alex. No one wins."
"Voice of experience?"
"Voice of survival."
I'm starting to win them over through small moments. When Ana hands me Antonia, the baby immediately grabs my earring with the grip strength of someone who shares Dante's DNA.
"She's got her father's handshake," I say, gently extracting my earlobe.
Dante makes a sound, brief, almost inaudible. The table goes quiet because apparently Dante laughing is like spotting a unicorn.
The warmth of Nico's thigh presses against mine under the table, and I have to focus on not reacting to the heat that spreads from that simple contact. His hand finds my knee, squeezes once, a reminder that he's here, I'm safe, we're in this together.
Faith finds me during a kitchen run, Theodore sleeping against her shoulder. "I heard about the Calypso Room," she says quietly. "Not the tabloid version. Nico told Luca."
“Oh?”
I tense, but her expression is understanding, not judgment.
"I know what it's like to carry something you can't tell anyone. And I know what it's like when someone finally takes it from you."
The recognition between us doesn't need words. Whatever Faith survived to get here, it lives in the same neighborhood as my trauma.
"He's beautiful," I say, looking at Theodore.
"He's a monster. He eats every two hours and screams like Luca when he doesn't get what he wants."
"I heard that," Luca says from across the room, pale eyes tracking us with unnerving focus.
"You were meant to, darling," Faith replies sweetly.
Later, Maria brings out tiramisu that could make angels weep. I compliment it at maximum volume, as instructed by Emma. Maria bursts into fresh tears and announces I'm her new favorite, which makes Alex protest dramatically until Emma redirects him.
The evening settles into something softer but never quite safe. The fire burns low, wine flows—but not too freely, the family arranged in their unconscious constellation. Marco's phone buzzes twice, business that can't wait, and he steps out,speaking in hushed tones. When he returns, there's a slight tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before, and Valentina quietly checks him over without comment, her hand lingering on his arm in silent question.
I watch the siblings communicate in layers: surface jokes hiding years of shared history. Even damaged, even carrying their individual traumas, they're here. Together. The difference between them and the Delgados isn't the damage, it's the proximity. They stayed close enough to heal in each other's company.
Nico's hand finds the back of my neck, thumb tracing familiar circles that make me hyperaware of his body next to mine.
"You okay?" he asks, low enough only I hear.
"Your family loves by yelling at each other and occasionally handling business calls that require immediate attention, and I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
The evening deepens, shadows growing longer, and something shifts in the room's energy. Marco rises from his chair by the fireplace, glass in hand. The family quiets, not because he demands it but because they're attuned to him instinctively, like planets recognizing their sun.
He looks at Nico first. A long look between brothers that contains entire conversations. Then his eyes find me.
"In this family, we don't make speeches." He pauses. "Valentina will remind me of this next time I make a speech."
"Already noted," Valentina murmurs, hand resting on her hip where I suspect she keeps a knife.
A ripple of warm laughter, then Marco continues.
"My brother went to Miami to do a job. He came back different." His eyes stay on Nico. "Better. Whatever you did…" Now looking at me. "Thank you."
Simple words, but from the Don they land with weight.
