Nico is mid-story, hands moving, voice carrying that easy rhythm that makes people lean in. He’s telling them about a card game in Baton Rouge. A politician, a marked deck, and a bottle of bourbon that turned out to be iced tea.
“And the man looks at me, dead serious, and says ‘I’ve been playing poker for forty years.’” Nico pauses, timing perfect. “So I said, ‘That’s funny. I’ve been cheating for thirty.’”
Marco laughs. Open and unguarded, the sound startling in a room where he usually fights so hard to be heard. Gia rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Even Renzo’s expression softens a fraction.
This is what Mama built. Sunday dinners. Every damn one of us at this table, no matter what blood had been spilled that week.
And now I sit where Papa once sat. At the head of a table full of people I would burn the world down to protect. Looking at a woman who walked into my life in her sister’s place and became irreplaceable.
Cassia catches me watching. Her lips curve. Just a fraction. A private thing, meant for me alone.
My grip tightens on the glass.
Cristo.
I look away. Reach for my wine. Take a long swallow and let the burn settle me.
Tonight, this ends.
Romano sits three seats down, eating Nonna Rosa’s food, laughing at Nico’s jokes, wearing thirty years of trust like a mask. The bastard. He has no idea that Renzo and I have been planning his death for two days. That the evidence of his betrayal sits in my study, every document signed with his own hand.
After dessert. After coffee. After he’s fat and comfortable and certain he’s gotten away with everything.
Then we move.
“Dante.”
Gia’s voice pulls me back. She’s looking at me with that knowing expression, the one that makes her look so much like Mama it hurts.
“You’re brooding.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Same thing, with you.” She reaches for her wine. “Try eating instead. Nonna Rosa made the gravy from scratch. She’ll be offended if you let it get cold.”
I take a bite to appease her. It’s good. It’s always good.
“Better,” Gia says. “You look human again.”
“Don’t push it.”
She grins. Turns back to Renzo.
“What about you? When’s the last time you ate and weren’t standing over a sink at three in the morning?”
Renzo gives her a flat look.
“That’s what I thought.” She pushes a roll toward him. “Eat. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re a surgeon.”
“Still a doctor. Eat.”
He takes the bread. Doesn’t eat it. But he takes it, and the concession makes Gia’s shoulders relax.
They’ve always had this. The two of them. A language no one else speaks. Gia, who never stopped trying to reach him. Renzo, who lets her closer than anyone else alive.
Fuck.
