Chapter 38
Turo
Courts are quieterthan war rooms. That’s the first thing I notice as we take our seats. The way the air holds itself still, like everyone inside is afraid of being recorded by the walls. Marble floors. Pale wood. Flags that have never known blood. Men in suits pretending they don’t understand power.
Lucia sits to my right. Nico sits between us. Small suit. Tiny shoes that pinch a little at the toes. His hands are in ours, fingers wrapped tight like he’s anchoring himself to gravity. He looks solemn, too serious for a child who should be worried about cartoons and sugar, not judges and names and who gets to keep him.
I feel the weight of eyes on us. Family eyes. Cousins. Capos. Men who have watched me since I was a boy and men who have been waiting, quietly, for me to fail.
Marco’s chair is empty. His absence is a presence all its own.
Death certificate filed. Cause listed in language so clean, it almost looks merciful. Family discipline. Justified. Final.
The judge calls the case. Paperwork moves. Envelopes change hands. The DNA results sit sealed on the desk like a verdict waiting to be born.
I don’t look at them. I look at my son. His leg swings once, then stills when Lucia’s thumb rubs small, steady circles against his knuckles. He leans into it without realizing he’s doing it. That unconscious trust hits me harder than any accusation ever could.
“DNA testing confirms,” the judge says, voice neutral, practiced, “that Turo Mancini is the biological father of Nico Cannata. Custody is awarded to?—”
A chair scrapes back. I don’t turn yet. I don’t have to. I know that sound.
“This is convenient,” Dante says from the back row. My cousin. My blood. His voice carries easily in the room, sharp with something that wants to be called principle but smells more like hunger. “Three years with no heir, and suddenly this woman appears with a child and we’re supposed to bow?”
Murmurs ripple. Old men shifting. Old loyalties testing the air.
I stand slowly. “Do you have something to say, Dante?”
He lifts his chin. “I’m saying show us proof beyond paper.”
Lucia’s breath tightens beside me. Nico’s fingers twitch. And then he does it. His hand lifts to his ear. Just a touch. A small, nervous rub, like he’s checking something invisible. Like his body is asking a question his mouth doesn’t have words for yet.
I feel my own fingers move before I’m aware of deciding to. Same gesture. Same place.
The room goes quiet. Not because I demanded it. Because recognition is louder than authority.
I step closer to Nico, but not in front of him. Beside him. Where he can feel me without being hidden. Where he can see everyone who’s looking at him and know I’m not leaving.
“I see my father’s ghost every time I look in the mirror,” I say calmly. “I see my father in him, too.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t threaten. I don’t need to.
“Anyone else want to question my family?”
Silence.
Dante sits down.
The judge clears his throat, relieved to return to procedure. “Heir acknowledged. Custody awarded jointly to Turo Mancini and Lucia Cannata. Case closed.”
The gavel comes down. Lucia exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years. Nico looks up at me, uncertain, searching. I squeeze his hand once. Firm. Present.
It’s over. Not because a court said so. Because no one stood up again.
And for the first time in my life, I understand something my father never did.
Power isn’t what you take. It’s what you protect, and who stands with you when you do.
We leave together. All three of us.
