"Sorry," I manage. "I didn't mean to?—"
"Don't you dare apologize." Sophia's voice is fierce. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
I look past her at the massive doors. The foyer beyond. The house full of people who will want to see me, talk to me, ask questions I don't have answers for.
"I can't," I whisper. "Not yet. I can't face them."
Sophia squeezes my hand.
"You don't have to. We can go straight to your room. Get you settled. The others can wait."
Relief floods through me. I nod, not trusting my voice.
Sophia keeps hold of my hand as she leads me up the remaining stairs. I don't look back at Dante. I can't. If I look at him right now, I'll start crying again.
The doors open. The foyer stretches before us.
Sophia guides me past it all. Down a hallway. Up a staircase.
I follow her, one step at a time, her hand the only thing keeping me tethered to the present.
Dante
I watch Marina disappear into the house with Sophia. Her hand gripping Sophia's like a lifeline. Her shoulders shaking with sobs she couldn't hold back.
The car pulls away behind me. Nico heads toward the side entrance, already on his phone. The guards at the gate return to their posts. Everything moves like clockwork. The Sartori machine, running smooth and efficient.
I used to feel pride when I saw it. Twenty years of building something. Twenty years of loyalty and blood and sacrifice.
Now it just feels hollow.
"Dante."
Lorenzo's voice comes from the top of the stairs. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that steady gaze that's always seen too much.
I climb the steps. Each one feels heavier than the last.
"Welcome home," Lorenzo says.
Home.
This place was home once. These walls. These people. The family I chose when I had nothing. The brothers who took me in when the world had thrown me away.
Now I know the truth.
Lorenzo is my brother. My actual blood brother.
Giuseppe fathered children across Chicago like he was planting seeds. Lorenzo. Me. Alejandro. The kids he had with his secret mistress. God knows how many others.
We're all his kids. All his victims.
Lorenzo extends his hand. I take it. His grip is firm, familiar. The same handshake we've exchanged a thousand times.
"You look like shit," he says.
"Feel like it too."
He pulls me into a brief embrace. One arm around my shoulders, a quick pat on the back. The way brothers do.
