Then a string of hearts. Red ones. Six of them, because Gemma had decided that six was her number. I hadn't asked why because some things were better left as mysteries.
I smiled.
Not the controlled expression I wore in meetings. Not the measured acknowledgment I offered associates and allies. Areal, full, stupid smile that I felt in my chest and couldn't have stopped if I'd tried.
I looked up.
Both of them were staring at me.
Santo had paused mid-chew, a gnocchi impaled on his fork like a casualty. Marco's espresso cup hovered near his lips, his dark eyes bright with the particular gleam that preceded the worst of his commentary.
The silence stretched for exactly two seconds.
"Madonna," Santo muttered. He shook his head, slow and mournful, like a man witnessing a natural disaster. "He’s smiling. The big,bad,mafioso! He's got it bad."
"Our brother." Marco set down his espresso with theatrical precision. "The fearsome Don Caruso. Terror of the South Side. The man who made Richie Gambetti cry at his own son's christening." His grin was wicked—the kind of grin that had been launching ships and ruining reputations since he was old enough to weaponize it. "Grinning at his phone like a teenager."
I pocketed the phone. Composed my face. Straightened my cuffs with the deliberate care of a man who was absolutely not blushing, because Dante Caruso did not blush.
"We're not discussing my wife."
"We're absolutely discussing your wife." Santo pointed his fork at me. A piece of gnocchi clung to the tine like it had chosen sides. "You've been useless for weeks. Walking around with that dopey look on your face, distracted in meetings, actually happy for once in your miserable life." He jabbed the fork in my direction for emphasis. "It's disgusting. I love it."
"I'm not distracted in meetings."
"You told Frankie Rossini his proposal sounded 'lovely.'" Marco's voice dripped with barely suppressed delight. "Lovely. You said lovely. In a sit-down. About a protection restructure."
The memory surfaced. I'd been thinking about the way Gemma had laughed that morning—really laughed, head thrown back, the sound loose and bright and nothing like the careful performance she'd maintained for weeks. She'd been reading to me from an art criticism essay that was so pretentious it circled back around to comedy, and her impression of the author had been devastating.
I may have been slightly unfocused in the Rossini meeting.
"Frankie didn't notice."
"Frankie didn't notice because Frankie's an idiot—got gnocchi-for-brains," Santo said. "The rest of us noticed."
Marco leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his laced fingers. The pose of a man about to deliver a killing blow with perfect form.
"Tell me, Dante—does she know you used to practice kissing on your pillow? Because I feel like she should know."
Santo choked on his wine.
"I was twelve."
"You were fourteen. I was seven. I remember because you made me swear not to tell, and I've been waiting twenty years for the right moment." Marco spread his hands, magnanimous. "This is the moment."
"I will have you killed."
"You won't. I'm the pretty one. The family needs me."
Santo was coughing into his napkin, his shoulders shaking. The sound that escaped him might have been a laugh. It was hard to tell—Santo's laughter and his anger came from the same volcanic place, and both were equally rare.
"Enough." I said it with the authority of a man who ran a criminal empire, and it landed with all the force of a wet napkin. "My personal life is not entertainment."
"Your personal life is the only fucking entertainment we've got," Marco countered. "Santo stabs people and I run anightclub. You're the one providing the romantic subplot." He sipped his espresso. "We're invested."
I looked between them. My brothers. The men I'd die for, kill for, endure this merciless interrogation for. Santo with his scarred knuckles and his hidden tenderness. Marco with his sharp smile and his sharper mind and the long game he was always playing that none of us fully understood.
They were happy for me. That was the truth beneath the teasing—a truth they'd smother before admitting out loud. Santo, who didn't trust anyone, was glad I'd found someone to trust. Marco, who performed ease for the world, was genuinely pleased that I'd stopped performing entirely.
