"Why?"
"Because Dante is different." He's quiet for a long moment. "He sees the world differently than most people. Processes things differently. What doctors now would call the autism spectrum. But my father..."
He stops. Takes a breath.
"My father called him weak. Defective. Said he couldn't run an empire if he couldn't read a room like normal people do." The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut. "He didn't get Dante help. Didn't try to understand him. Just... discarded him. Gave the crown to me instead."
“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way, and neither did Dante. You’re perfect exactly as you are.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice to hold steady. But it’s exactly what I needed to hear.
"Where is Dante now?"
"Hell, if I know. He’s the only child my father had with his first wife and after he and Dante fell out, Dante didn’t want to stay in contact with any of us. At first, he stayed in a different wing of the mansion, away from the main family. Away from the constant reminder of what our father thought of him." Salvatore's hand covers mine, where it rests on his thigh. "I was fifteen when my father told me I'd inherit. Fifteen years old, and I knew I could never show weakness. Could never let anyone see me shake. Because if they did, I'd end up like Dante. Pushed aside. Forgotten."
"Salvatore..."
"Don't." His grip tightens slightly. "Don't pity me. I don't need your pity."
"I'm not pitying you." I turn my hand under his, lacing our fingers together. "I'm trying to understand you."
He searches my face.
"You should run," he whispers. "You should take that open door and never look back. This life, this family, everything I am... it will only destroy you."
“Save yourself.”
I look down at his hand on top of mine trying to find the words.
"Maybe I don't want to be saved."
The words surprise us both.
I don't know where they came from. Don't know if I even mean them. But they're out there now, hanging between us like a bridge neither of us expected to build.
"You can just be yourself with me," I say quietly. "That's the only way this would work. Whatever this is. I don't want the Don. I don't want the mask you show everyone else. I want..." I pause, searching for the right words. "I want the man who makes bunny ears behind his brother's head in family photos."
His breath catches.
"You saw those?"
"Yesterday. I hope that's okay."
For a long moment, he just looks at me, and then he softens.
"My mother made us take that photo," he says. "She was the only one who could get us all to behave. The only one who could make my father smile."
"She seemed wonderful."
"She was." He pauses. "She would have liked you."
The words hit me harder than they should.
"The library was hers," he continues. "She built this collection over thirty years. Every book chosen with care. Every rare edition hunted down and preserved." He looks around at the towering shelves. "I haven't been in here in years. Too many memories. Too much of her is still in the walls."
"But you're here now."
"I don't know why I came here today. I just..." He trails off, then laughs softly. "Actually, I do know. I was looking for you."
