Valentino's expression doesn't change. He just nods. "I'll send Dante back to Sicily. He can manage things there for as long as needed."
Dante. Lorenzo's right hand. His consigliere, his enforcer, his closest friend outside the family. Dante's been in Chicago for years now, running Lorenzo's darker operations while Lorenzo plays the legitimate businessman with his restaurants.
"Lorenzo won't like that," I say.
"Lorenzo will manage." Valentino stands, moves to the window. His reflection ghosts across the glass. "Dante is important to him, yes. But if I ask, Lorenzo won't argue. He knows what I'm doing. Why I'm doing it."
Because Lorenzo still loves me. Even now. Even after everything. He still shows up.
I hate him for it sometimes.
"Things between you and Lorenzo," Valentino says, still facing the window. "They're not good."
"No."
"They will be. Eventually." He turns back to me. "Family breaks. Family heals. That's what we do."
I don't answer. Can't. The lump in my throat won't let me.
Valentino crosses the room. Stops in front of my chair. For a moment, I think he's going to put his hand on my shoulder, offer some gesture of comfort. Instead, he just looks down at me.
"Tomorrow," he says. "You face them again. Pietro, Lorenzo, Nico. You sit at that table and you show them you're still here. Still fighting. Still a Sartori."
"And if I can't control it? The anger?"
"Then you leave the room. You come find me. We drink whiskey and you try again the next day." He shrugs. "It's not complicated, Bruno. It's just hard."
Hard. Yes. Everything is hard now. Getting out of bed. Getting dressed. Wheeling myself through halls that used to echo with my footsteps. Facing my brothers who look at me like I'm a ghost. Like I'm already dead and just haven't realized it yet.
But Valentino's here. Staying. For me.
I won't say thank you. Can't. The words would choke me.
He seems to understand anyway. He always does.
"Get some sleep," he says, heading for the door. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
The door closes behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
Antonella
The ceiling of my bedroom has a crack running through it. I've been staring at it for twenty minutes now, tracing its path from the corner near the window to just above my closet door.
This house is falling apart. Just like everything else.
I roll onto my side, pulling the thin comforter up to my chin. The heating's been unreliable for months. Papa promised to get it fixed. He promises a lot of things.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Gianna, probably. Wanting to know if I've figured out the credit card situation. I don't reach for it.
What am I supposed to tell her? That our father gambled away whatever was left? That the skincare products she wanted are the least of our problems? That I've been covering his debts for two years now, and I'm running out of ways to do it?
The Romano family. One of the small Italian families in Chicago. That's what we are. What we've always been. Not powerful like the Sartoris or the Morellis. Not connected like theCorellis. Just... present. Surviving. Holding onto our little piece of territory through loyalty and stubbornness and the memory of what we used to be.
My grandfather built something here. Not an empire, but something solid. Respectable. He had partnerships with the bigger families. Ran legitimate businesses alongside the other stuff. When he died, my father took over, and for a while, things were fine.
Then Mama got sick.
