"He made sure I ate. Made sure I slept. Made sure I did my homework even when the house felt like a tomb and no one wanted to do anything except lie down and stop existing." A small, sad smile crossed her face. "He would check on me at night. Sit on the edge of my bed and ask about my day, even when I knew he was exhausted, even when he had his own grief to carry. He never let me see how much he was struggling. He just—took care of me."
My throat had gone tight. I didn't trust myself to speak.
"That's who he is," Donatella said. "Under all the don stuff, under the control and the expectations and the intensity. He takes care of people. It's just—" She paused, searching for the right words. "His way of doing it isn't always what people expect."
I thought about what she was describing. A fifteen-year-old boy shouldering responsibility that should have belonged to adults. A man who showed love through action rather than words. Someone who noticed when people weren't eating, weren't sleeping, weren't okay.
He takes care of people.
Something stirred in my chest. Something dangerous and hopeful that I didn't want to examine too closely.
Donatella reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her palm was warm against my fingers, her grip firm without being demanding.
"I don't know what kind of marriage you're expecting," she said quietly. "Or what you've been told about my brother. But I want you to know that whatever happens, you're not alone here. You have me."
Her eyes were bright. Fierce. The same intensity I'd seen in photographs of Dante, channeled into something softer.
"And Dante—if you let him—he'll take care of you in ways you didn't even know you needed." She squeezed my hand again. "Just give him a chance to show you who he really is. Okay?"
I looked at this woman across the table. This warm, chaotic force of nature who had offered friendship without agenda. Who had watched me give money to a homeless man and said nothing judgmental. Who spoke of her brother with a love that bordered on reverence.
She was asking me to hope.
That was what it came down to.
It was terrifying.
Hope was always terrifying when you'd learned, over and over, that hoping only made the disappointment worse.
But sitting in this sunlit coffee shop, with lavender on my tongue and Donatella's hand in mine and the first real warmth I'd felt in days spreading through my chest, I couldn't quite make myself refuse it.
"Okay," I said. My voice came out rough, scraped over the emotion I was trying to contain. "I'll try."
Donatella's face split into a grin that could have lit up the entire block.
"That's all I'm asking." She released my hand and picked up her latte again, the serious moment passing as quickly as it had arrived. "Now. Tell me about this art history degree. I need to know if you're a Caravaggio person or a Botticelli person, because this will determine the entire future of our friendship."
I laughed—a real laugh, surprising both of us—and let her pull me into a conversation about Renaissance painters that somehow evolved into a debate about whether the Uffizi was better than the Met.
The afternoon stretched on. The lavender lattes gave way to espresso, then to sparkling water as the sun shifted angles through the window. Donatella talked and I listened and occasionally I talked too, and for a few hours I forgot about weddings and fathers and men with hungry eyes and the weight of expectations I'd never asked to carry.
Chapter 5
Dante
I’dalwayshatedgettingfitted for clothes. Getting tailored for my wedding tux was no different.
Russo and sons had fitted four generations of Caruso men. My ancestors had stood on this same platform, arms outstretched like crucifixes, while old Giuseppe or his father or his grandfather circled with pins between their teeth.
Giuseppe moved around me with the patience of a man who had dressed politicians and priests and killers, his gnarled fingers finding imperfections invisible to anyone else. He'd fitted me for my confirmation suit when I was twelve. My first communion. My father's funeral, three days ago. Now this.
The tuxedo was half-finished, pinned in a dozen places, the fabric pulling slightly across my shoulders where the final adjustments hadn't been made. In the three-way mirror, I looked like a man preparing for something ceremonial. Something final.
Santo sprawled in the leather armchair by the window, scrolling through his phone with the kind of aggressive disinterest that meant he was barely containing himself. His presence filled the small room the way it always did—restless energy coiled tight, looking for an outlet. He hadn't shaved. The stubble on his jaw was dark against his skin, and the shadows under his eyes told me he hadn't slept much either.
Marco perched on the arm of the sofa, already impeccable in his own fitted suit. He looked like he'd walked off a magazine cover—not a hair out of place, his smile easy and knowing as he watched Giuseppe work. He was too observant for his own good, my youngest brother.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," Marco observed. His voice carried that particular lilt of amusement that meant he was enjoying himself at my expense. "Smile, fratello. You're getting married, not executed."
