Whatever she’s thinking will have to wait.
I store it. The look on her face. Her non-answer. The haunted shadow in her eyes.
Later. I’ll ask later.
I pull my chair closer to the bed. Take his hand. His skin is clammy. Cooler than it should be. But not cold. Not anymore.
He looks smaller like this. The powerful Don, the man who commands rooms by entering them, reduced to this pale figure beneath white sheets. Tubes in his arm. Machines breathing for him.
His face is slack. No tension in his jaw. His hands rest open at his sides, fingers uncurled. The furrow between his brows that I’ve memorized, the one that deepens when he’s calculating, when he’s holding back, when he’s fighting himself. Gone. All of it gone.
“You don’t get to die.” My voice sounds strange in the quiet. Too loud. Too desperate. “Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave me here alone.”
The monitor holds its rhythm. Steady. Slow.
“I didn’t come this far to lose you.”
I press my forehead against his chest. Feel it rise. Fall. Rise again. Count the seconds between each breath.
I lift my head. Bring his hand to my lips. Press my mouth against his knuckles and hold it there until the trembling in my jaw stops.
“Don’t make me a widow before I’ve even been a wife. Don’t you dare.”
Around midnight, Nonna Rosa appears.
She carries a tray. Sandwiches. Tea. Things that require eating, which is impossible right now.
She doesn’t speak. Just sets the tray on the side table. Touches my shoulder with her weathered hand. Looks at Dante for a long moment.
Then she bows her head. Crosses herself. Whispers in Italian, too low to catch. A prayer. Or a command. With Nonna Rosa, it’s hard to tell the difference.
When she looks up, her eyes are wet.
“He’s strong, that one.” The words come out rough. “Too stubborn to let go. Like his Papa.”
I nod. Can’t speak.
She squeezes my shoulder once. Then she’s gone.
I don’t touch the food. Neither does Giada. The tea goes cold.
Around 2:00 a.m., a shadow fills the doorway.
Marco.
He doesn’t come in. Just stands at the threshold, hands shoved in his pockets, watching his brother breathe.
He looks young in the low light. Too young for any of this.
“The call logs,” he says, voice rough. “They mattered?”
I turn in my chair. “They were the final piece. You found the Benedetti connection. Without that, we might not have caught him in time.”
His posture shifts. Not relief. Not pride. But a tightness loosens in his shoulders.
“I should have brought it to Dante sooner.” His jaw works. “I knew something was wrong. I should have pushed harder.”
“You brought it to me. And I brought it to him. And now Romano is handled.”
