Marina's watching me with something I can't read. Not pity. Not judgment. Something else.
"You found a family," she says quietly.
"I found a family."
The words feel strange in my mouth. True, but strange. Like admitting something I've known for twenty years but never said out loud.
"There are kids right now," I say. "Kids like I was. Fighting from the day they are born just to survive. Sleeping in doorways. Stealing food. Learning that the world is a place that hurts you and no one is coming to help."
My voice goes rough.
"They don't know they can be loved. They don't know that people exist who will stay. Who will choose them. Who will look at them and see something worth keeping."
Marina's eyes are wet again.
"They think they're broken," I say. "They think whatever happened to them—whatever made them end up alone—means they don't deserve anything good. They learn to stop hoping. Stop wanting. Stop believing that love is something that happens to people like them."
I meet her eyes.
"I was one of those kids. For four years, I was one of those kids. And if Bruno hadn't found me in that warehouse, I would have died believing I was nothing. That my life meant nothing. That no one would ever look at me and see a person worth saving."
Marina's crying again. Silent tears running down her cheeks.
"But he did," I say. "He found me. And Lorenzo saw me. And Aria fed me. And slowly, over years, I learned something I never thought I'd learn."
I take a breath.
"I learned that people can stay. That love doesn't always leave. That sometimes, if you're lucky, you find people who choose you. Not because you're useful. Not because you can fight or kill or protect them. But because they see you. The real you. The broken, terrified, hopeless you. And they decide you're worth keeping anyway."
Marina wipes her face with both hands.
"Dante," she whispers.
"I'm not telling you this so you'll feel sorry for me," I say. "I'm telling you because you asked. Because you wanted to know who I am. What made me this way."
I lean back against the couch. The movement pulls at my wound, but I ignore it.
"This is who I am. A kid who lost everything. A man who found a family. A killer who loves the people he protects."
I look at her.
"I'm not asking you to forgive what I've done. I'm not asking you to understand it. I'm just trying for the first time to express what I truly feel.''
Marina
I stare at him.
I didn't know he could talk this much.
In Chicago, Dante barely spoke. He communicated in looks and silences and the occasional sharp comment designed to make me angry. I thought that was who he was. A man of few words. A weapon that didn't need to explain itself.
But he's been talking for almost half an hour now. Telling me things I'm certain he's never told anyone. His voice rough in places, steady in others. His eyes distant when he talks about his family's murder, present when he talks about the Sartoris.
He's still talking about those kids. The ones like him. The ones sleeping in doorways right now, learning that the world is a place that hurts you.
I need him to stop.
Not because I don't care. Because I care too much. Because I know those kids exist. I work with foster children every day at the nonprofit. I see the ones who've learned to stop hoping. The ones who flinch when adults move too fast. The ones who steal food and hide it in their pockets because they don't trust that there will be more tomorrow.
