The scent of espresso and fresh baked goods hangs invitingly in the air.
“Coffee?”my mother offers.
“Will I need it?”I grin.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
She’s right about that.And I won’t rest until Valentina wears my ring and has surrendered every one of her womanly secrets to me.
Shaking my head to clear it, I follow my mother to the kitchen.
Even though the kitchen is now my sister-in-law’s domain, it remains familiar with its bright light from pendant fixtures over the granite island and copper pots hanging from a rack above.As always, they are gleaming softly.
Alessia isn’t here, and my mother fills an espresso cup for me.
“Dante.”Her voice is steady, but it’s laced with concern.She cups my cheek, searching my face.“What have you done?”
I exhale, the weight of the night pressing down.“What needed doing.”Like I always have.
She shakes her head, lips thinning.“Kidnapping Fabrizio Russo’s daughter?In Dallas?On his turf?”Her hand drops, fingers twisting in her apron.“You’re playing with fire,figlio mio.This isn’t just revenge—it’s madness.”
Revenge.
The word hangs between us, heavy as lead.I lean against the island, the cool granite grounding me.“They took Father from us.Muscled into our territory, ordered the hit.I won’t let it stand.”
She lifts her chin.“Bringing her into the family?”
I know what she’s saying.Maybe I should have thought about that.The enemy, the daughter of the man who killed her husband, will be seated at our table for Sunday dinner.For holiday meals.“What would you have me do?”
Shaking her head, she sighs.
More than anyone, Raffaele Moretti’s wife understands what’s at stake.She was under no illusion as to the man her husband was.And even if she doesn’t support my course of action, she knows why I made my choices.
I down the strong, thick espresso.“Thank you for this.”
She takes a moka pot from the stove and places it on a tray and tells me to take it into my brother’s study.
For a moment, we look at each other, and her eyes fill with tears.
Not long ago, it had been Raffael’s study.
When does the grief go away?
Does it?
The door to the adjoining hallway swings open, cutting the moment.Nico steps in, his presence filling the space—tailored suit impeccable but tension etched in his jaw.His gaze flicks between us, assessing.“Matteo’s waiting.”
With a sharp nod, I dutifully pick up the tray and carry it to the room where I’ve spent so much of my life.
As the family’s enforcer, I had plenty of meetings behind the closed door.And I’ve been in my fair share of trouble.Under my brother’s reign, even though I’m his second-in-command, it seems that not much will change.
As always, I silently acknowledge my father’s portrait.
I’ve done this for him.And I have no regrets.
I put down the tray on the sideboard.
But since everyone’s small cups are still full, I don’t lift the pot.
