I folded them together and walked to the doorway.
The man looked up at me with eyes that had seen too much. Blue eyes, faded like old denim, set in a face that had been handsome once before life had worn it down to bone and shadow.
"Get something hot," I said quietly, pressing the bills into his weathered hand. "It's cold today."
His fingers closed around the money. "God bless you, miss." His voice cracked on the words. "God bless you."
I nodded—there was nothing to say that would matter—and returned to where Donatella waited on the sidewalk.
She was watching me. Not with judgment or surprise or the performative concern of someone who thought they were witnessing something noteworthy. Just watching. Her dark eyes—the same shade as her brother's, I realized—were steady and quiet in a face that had been all motion moments before.
She didn't say anything.
She just slipped her arm through mine again and started walking.
But her grip felt warmer somehow. More real. Like something had shifted between us—some invisible barrier coming down, some door opening that I hadn't even known was closed.
"The coffee shop is two blocks up," she said, her voice softer than it had been. "The lavender lattes really are ridiculous. I want you to know that going in."
"I'm prepared for ridiculous," I said.
"Good." She squeezed my arm. "Because I'm about to give you the most aggressive walking tour of Lincoln Park in human history, and I need you to keep up."
Thecoffeeshopwascalled The Violet Hour, tucked into a tree-lined street in Lincoln Park, and the lavender lattes were actually delicious—a fact I admitted with genuine surprise as Donatella grinned at me over the rim of her cup.
"Told you," she said, triumphant. "Everyone thinks lavender in coffee is going to taste like soap, but this place does something magical with it. I don't ask questions. I just drink." He laughed. “Don’t think, just drink. It’s like my life philosophy.”
We'd claimed a corner table by the window, afternoon light slanting through the glass, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. The walk had taken almost an hour—Donatella's "aggressive walking tour" had included commentary on everything from the best pizza place in the city ("Lou Malnati's, anyone who says Giordano's is lying") to the history of the brownstones we passed ("robber baron money, mostly, which feels appropriate for our family situation").
Now she was giving me a crash course in Caruso family dynamics, delivered with the same rapid-fire energy she brought to everything.
"Okay, so Santo." She ticked off a finger. "He's basically a golden retriever who thinks he's a pit bull. All bark, lots of bite actually, but underneath he's soft as butter. He'll probably grunt at you and not make eye contact for the first six months, but that's just his thing. Don't take it personally."
"Noted."
"Marco's the charmer. He runs this nightclub—Nero, very bougie, very scene-y—and he knows everyone and everything. Don't trust a word he says, but also trust everything he says. It's complicated. He'll flirt with you because he flirts with everyone,but it doesn't mean anything. It's just how his face works. He’s got resting slut face."
I took a sip of my latte to hide the smile tugging at my mouth.
"And the restaurant—Caruso's—that's the heart of everything. It's where we have family dinners, where Dante holds court, where all the important stuff happens. The gnocchi is transcendent. I won't hear arguments on this point."
She paused to drink her coffee, and I watched her face shift. The manic energy dimming slightly, something more serious rising beneath it.
"Can I be honest with you about something?"
The question made my shoulders tense automatically—that phrase never preceded anything good—but I nodded.
"Dante is—" She hesitated, choosing words with a care that seemed uncharacteristic. "He's not easy to know. He's private. Controlled. Very protective of the people he cares about." She set down her cup, wrapping both hands around it like she needed the anchor. "Some people find him cold, or demanding, or—intense, I guess. He has certain expectations, certain ways he shows he cares that aren't always obvious."
I thought about his face at the funeral. The shuttered expression. The rough, clipped response when I'd offered condolences.
"But he's the best man I know."
The words landed with the weight of absolute conviction. Donatella's dark eyes met mine, and I saw something in them that I recognized—the fierce, protective love of someone who had been raised by the person they were defending.
"When our mom died," she continued, and her voice softened on the words, "Dante was fifteen. I was eight. And he basically—he raised me. Papa was drowning in grief, couldn't function, couldn't take care of himself let alone the rest of us. The boyswere each dealing with it in their own ways—Santo got angry, Marco got distant—but Dante just . . . stepped up."
She took a breath. Let it out slowly.
