I hit send before I could talk myself out of it. Before the fear could override the desperate, dangerous hope that was unfurlingin my chest like something that had been waiting too long to bloom.
The response came immediately—so fast that Donatella must have been watching her phone, must have been waiting to see if I'd say yes.
"YESSSSS. Tomorrow 10am. I'll pick you up. Wear comfortable shoes—I give aggressive walking tours.??????"
Three purple hearts. All caps enthusiasm. The promise of aggressive walking tours.
It was absurd. It was probably a mistake. It was definitely not the safe, controlled behavior I'd promised myself I would maintain.
But sitting in the Peninsula's elegant lobby, surrounded by strangers in a city I didn't know, facing a wedding to a man I didn't understand, I felt my mouth curve into something that might have been a smile.
It was small. It was barely there.
But it was something.
DonatellaCarusowasaforce of nature in vintage Levi's and a cashmere sweater, her dark curls escaping from a messy bun, her energy filling the hotel lobby like she owned it.
I spotted her before she spotted me—partly because she was impossible to miss, all animated gestures and designer sunglasses pushed up on her head like a headband, and partly because I'd been watching the entrance since nine forty-five, trying to prepare myself for whatever this encounter would bring.
No amount of preparation could have readied me for the hug.
"You're prettier than your photos," she announced, pulling me into an embrace before I could brace for impact. She smelled likeexpensive perfume and fresh air and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or brown sugar. "Dante's going to lose his mind. He already looked like someone hit him with a brick at the funeral—did you notice? He's usually so composed, but he could barely string a sentence together when you talked to him. I've never seen him like that."
She released me from the hug but immediately linked her arm through mine, steering me toward the lobby doors with the confidence of someone who had never in her life been uncertain about where she was going.
"Okay, so, the coffee place is in Lincoln Park, which means we're walking through some of the good neighborhoods so I can show you where things are." She barely paused for breath, her words tumbling over each other like puppies fighting for attention. "The lakefront is that way, Caruso's is about twenty minutes south, and there's this little bookshop on Armitage that I'm obsessed with—do you read? Please tell me you read. My brothers are all business and violence and I'm desperate for someone to talk about books with—"
I let the chatter wash over me, but my mind had snagged on one detail.
Dante looked like someone hit him with a brick.
I'd interpreted his curtness as disinterest. Disdain, even. The clipped response of a man evaluating an unwanted obligation and finding it lacking. But Donatella knew her brother. Had watched him navigate countless social situations, countless introductions, countless moments where composure mattered.
And she was saying he'd lost that composure. With me.
"—and this is the part where Lake Shore Drive does that stupid thing where it curves for no reason, I swear city planners were drunk when they designed this—"
He could barely string a sentence together.
I turned the information over in my mind, examining it from different angles. What did it mean if Dante Caruso—new don, master of control, man who commanded rooms without raising his voice—had been thrown off balance by meeting me? Was it good? Bad? Another kind of danger I hadn't prepared for?
"—okay, so, confession, I may have googled you extensively," Donatella was saying, and I tuned back in with a jolt. "Not in a creepy way! In a 'my brother is marrying a stranger and I want to make sure she's not a serial killer' way. You studied art history at Columbia, right? That's so cool. I wanted to go to art school but Papa said it was 'impractical for a woman of my position,' which, rude, but also he was probably right because I can't draw for shit—"
We'd turned onto a side street, trees lining the sidewalk, brownstones rising on either side. The October morning was crisp, the sky a pale blue that made the city look almost friendly. I was focusing on the rhythm of our footsteps, the weight of Donatella's arm in mine, when I saw him.
A man huddled in a doorway. Gray hair, weathered skin, a coat that was too thin for the season. He had a cardboard sign propped against his knees:Hungry. Anything helps. God bless.
I stopped walking.
Donatella stopped with me, her chatter trailing off as she followed my gaze.
My father's voice echoed in my head—clear as if he were standing beside me.Beggars are parasites, Gemma. Giving them money only encourages weakness. A strong society doesn't reward failure.
I opened my purse.
My wallet was in there, packed with the crisp bills my father's assistant had provided "for incidentals." Money I hadn't earned. Money that wasn't really mine. Money that existed because I wasa Moretti and Morettis always had money, even when they had nothing else.
I pulled out a twenty. Then another.
