I stood in front of my brother. Eye to eye.
"I will not start a war based on suspicion," I said. My voice was quiet. Steady. The voice of a don, not a grieving son. "I will not give Enzo the satisfaction of watching us tear ourselves apart three days after Papa's funeral. We investigate. We gather proof. And when the time comes—"
I held his gaze. Let him see the steel underneath my calm.
"—we will make him pay for every single thing he's done. Not just Papa. Everything." I thought of Gemma's white face, her trembling hands. "Whatever debts he owes this family, he will pay them in full. But that time is not now."
The silence stretched between us. Santo's jaw worked, fury and grief warring across his face in waves. His fists stayed clenched. His body stayed coiled. For a long moment, I thought he might swing at me anyway—might let the rage win over the discipline.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
The tension bled out of his shoulders. Not gone, just banked. A fire reduced to embers but still burning.
"Fine." The word came out rough, scraped over whatever he was swallowing down. "We do it your way."
He stepped closer. His hand came up and gripped my shoulder—hard enough to bruise, hard enough that I'd feel it tomorrow. A gesture that was part threat, part promise, part something I didn't have a name for.
"But after Saturday," he said, his voice low, "we talk. Really talk."
"After Saturday," I agreed. "We'll go through everything together. All three of us."
Marco shifted on the sofa arm but didn't speak. His silence was agreement. His stillness was solidarity.
Santo released my shoulder. Stepped back. The bomb had been defused—for now.
The tension broke, like ice cracking in spring.
Marco produced a flask from his inside pocket—silver, worn at the edges, the Caruso crest engraved on one side. I recognized it immediately. Our father's flask. The one he'd carried since before I was born, the one that had sat in his desk drawer for the past decade as his drinking slowed and his discipline sharpened.
Marco must have taken it after the funeral. Claimed it before anyone else could.
Something tightened in my chest at the sight of it.
"To Papa," Marco said quietly, unscrewing the cap. The scent of good whiskey rose into the air. "And to Dante, who's about to learn that marriage is just another form of organized crime."
Even Santo snorted at that. A rough sound, more surprise than humor, but it was something. It was a crack in the wall.
Marco took a sip and passed the flask to Santo, who drank deeply and passed it to me. The whiskey burned going down, smooth and expensive and carrying the ghost of a man who would never drink it again.
I handed it back to Marco without a word.
Giuseppe returned to his pins, sensing that the storm had passed. He resumed his work with the silent efficiency of aman who had seen enough Caruso family dramas to know when it was safe to re-engage. The fitting continued with something approaching normalcy.
"So," Marco said, settling back onto the arm of the sofa. "The reception. Walk me through the security setup. I assume we're putting Rosetti's people on the doors?"
"Rosetti and three of our own," I confirmed, holding still as Giuseppe adjusted the jacket's back seam. "No one enters without an invitation. Full guest list vetted by Friday night."
"And the seating?" Marco's eyes glinted with something that might have been mischief. "Please tell me you're not putting Aunt Rosa next to the Colombo cousins. I don't want to spend my brother's wedding playing referee."
"Rosa's at the family table. The Colombos are across the room."
"Thank God." Marco took another sip from the flask. "Remember Lucia's wedding? Rosa threw a bread roll at Uncle Gio's head. A bread roll, Dante. At a Catholic ceremony."
"She said he insulted her sauce recipe."
"He did insult her sauce recipe. But we don't solve insults with bread-based projectiles. That's what I told her afterward." Marco shook his head, grinning. "She said I was too soft for this family."
Santo dropped back into the armchair, his earlier tension replaced by something more tired. "What about the wine? Please tell me we're not serving that garbage the Morettis sent for the engagement announcement."
