My sister who’s been holding this family together since she was old enough to hold herself. She can’t carry Papa’s death on top of everything else. Not when it wasn’t her fault.
“Anything else?”
“Valentinos are nervous. Luca’s been making calls, testing alliances. Nico’s handling it.”
“And you?”
He blinks. “What about me?”
I study him. My brother who kills without flinching. Who hasn’t smiled in years. Whose hand drifts to the rosary in his pocket when he thinks no one’s watching. Today his fingers are still, resting on his knees, but his knuckles are white. Bloodless.The hollows under his eyes are new. Or maybe I’m seeing them for the first time.
“You okay?”
“I’m always okay.” Too fast. Too practiced. The same deflection every time, so smooth it’s convincing to anyone who isn’t looking.
“Renzo.”
“I’m fine, Dante.” He stands. The chair doesn’t scrape. He moves that silently. “Focus on getting stronger. I’ll handle the rest.”
He’s gone before I can push. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m staring at the space where he sat.
Fuck.
My brother’s cracking and I missed it. Months. Maybe years. Too busy drowning in my own grief to see his.
I scrub a hand down my face. Press my thumb and forefinger into my eyes until I see spots.
First, the wedding.
Then Renzo. Then the Benedettis. Then every goddamn loose thread this family can’t afford.
One week. The garden is being prepared, the family is being summoned, and Umberto Neri is coming to watch his invisible daughter become a Donna.
La mia mogliehas no idea what I have planned.
And Cassia in a wedding dress, walking toward me through Mama’s garden.
Cristo.
I’d burn this city to the ground for that image alone.
32
CASSIA
Three months ago, I drove myself to the grocery store and no one looked twice.
Now I don’t step outside without men in dark suits scanning rooftops.
The black SUV idles in the compound’s circular drive, two guards flanking the vehicle. Giada links her arm through mine as we walk down the front steps, and I catch one of the guards murmuring into his earpiece. Confirming our route. Alerting whoever needs to know that the Don’s wife is leaving the premises.
The Don’s wife. Me.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Giada says, squeezing my arm. “I can hear it from here.”
“It’s strange.” I catch the apology before it forms. Swallow the sorry that rises out of habit. “All of this.”
“The armed escort to go dress shopping?” She laughs, warm and real. “Welcome to being a Santoro. You get used to it.”
