He isn't wearing a tailored suit. He’s in a thick, knitted cardigan, a mug of steaming coffee held between his weathered hands. He looks like someone’s grandfather—the kind who tells stories by the fire and always has a peppermint in his pocket.
"It’s a bit early for a hike, isn't it, Amara?"
His voice is gravelly with age. He doesn't look up from his coffee. There’s no edge to his words. No threat. Just a quiet observation.
I tighten my grip on the bag strap, grip tight enough to creak. "I need some air."
Turi finally looks at me. He doesn't look at the bag or the fact that I’m vibrating with the urge to sprint. He gestures to the seat across from him.
"The air is fresh in the garden, but the coffee is better in here. Sit. Please. An old man hates to eat alone."
My internal alarm system is screaming, but Turi knows things, and I need to know which ones he offers for free. It’s the same warmth from dinner, the kind this family seems built around. I don’t know yet if that makes him safe or dangerous.
I shouldn't sit. I should lie. I should tell him I’m going to the gym and then peel out of the driveway at eighty miles per hour.
Instead, my legs move. I drop my bag on the floor—the thud sounds like a confession—and slide into the chair.
Turi pushes a plate of toasted bread and a small jar toward me. “Matteo made this. The secret is the hint of almond. He pretends the secret is technique, but I think it’s attention. Food knows when it’s an obligation versus a gift.”
I stare at the bread. My stomach is in knots, but the smell is distracting. I take a piece to give my hands something to do. "You’re up early."
"Old bones don't like to stay still," he says, taking a slow sip. "And I like the house at this hour. Before the shouting. Before the boys begin carrying the world on their shoulders. It reminds me of how it used to be. Before the massacre."
The mention of the massacre hits the room with physical force. I think about Alessio’s silver hair, that Costa inheritance that makes grief look visible even when it isn’t.
"Alessio told me you’ve been with them since the beginning," I say, my voice softening.
Turi nods, a distant look entering his eyes. “Since they were knee-high. I knew Carlo’s boys since before they could walk. I was Carlo’s right hand, and Riza’s friend. Riza... she was the light of that house. When she walked into a room, the shadows simply gave up."
He looks at me, his gaze searching mine. "Alessio has her eyes. And her stubbornness. He’s spent eleven years trying to bea wall. He thinks if he’s strong enough, the ghosts won't be able to find his brothers. He’s forgotten how to be a man because he’s too busy being a shield."
The bread tastes like ash. I think about the way Alessio looked at me last night—the raw, desperate hunger for connection.
"He’s dangerous, Turi," I whisper. "He’s a lot."
Turi chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. "He is a Costa. But danger isn't always a bad thing, Amara. A storm is dangerous, but it clears the air. A fire is dangerous, but it keeps the winter at bay."
He leans forward. “I saw enough last night. I saw the way he looked at you at dinner. I haven’t seen that look on Alessio’s face in twenty years.”
A lump hardens in my throat. I want to argue, to snap back with something sharp enough to draw blood, but the words die on my tongue.
"I don't belong here," I say, my voice cracking. "I’ve spent ten years running from people like the Bellantis. My brother died because of people like this. I don't know how to be part of a 'whole world.' I only know how to survive the broken one."
Turi reaches across the table. He doesn't grab my hand, but he rests his own on the wood near mine.
“If men like these waited for the world to be safe, none of them would ever love anyone. Carlo and Riza knew the South Side was closing in. But do you know what they did the night before Carlo was taken?”
I shake my head, mesmerized by the cadence of his voice.
"They held each other in the kitchen. Right there," he points to the tiled floor. "No music. Just the sound of the rain and each other’s breathing. Carlo told me once that if he only had one minute left, he’d spend it holding her, because that minute made the whole cost of this life worth it.”
The weight I’ve been carrying—the memory of Curtis’s empty room, the cold silence of the morgue, the decade of sleeping with one eye open—it shifts. It’s not just grief anymore. It’s a void.
I’ve been so busy making sure I don't lose anything else that I’ve forgotten to gain anything worth keeping.
"Alessio is terrified," Turi says softly. "He won't admit it. He’ll growl and command and act like he’s made of stone. He’s terrified you’ll look at him and see only the things he’s lost. He thinks he’s only good for carrying the dead. He forgets he’s a doctor.”
A tear escapes. I wipe it away angrily with the back of my hand. "I came here to find Vane. That’s all."
