DANTE
Two weeks in that goddamn bed. Two weeks of Gia hovering and Cassia worrying and my own body turning traitor.
Basta.Enough.
I’m up before dawn, ignoring the pull in my side where the poison tried to finish me. Gia cleared me yesterday with a list of restrictions I’m violating before she’s awake. Light activity. No stress. Rest.
Fuck rest.
The study sits different in the early morning. Quieter. The whiskey cart I haven’t touched since I woke up because Cassia watches the decanter every time my hand gets near it, those dark eyes tracking me like I’m a threat to myself. The maps on the wall. Eleven years of blood and territory, right here in this room.
But today I’m not thinking about borders or threats or the Benedetti bastards still circling.
Today I’m thinking about her.
La mia moglie.My wife.
Except she isn’t. Not the way I want her to be.
The first wedding was a transaction. A signature on a contract in this room. She deserved better. She deserveseverything, and I’m going to give it to her whether this city burns or not.
I pull open the bottom drawer. The one I never open.
The photograph is faded at the edges, handled too many times by hands that aren’t mine. Papa kept it here for thirty-four years. Mama in her wedding dress, white lace against olive skin, laughing at something he said. Papa beside her, younger than I’ve ever seen him, looking at her like she hung the damn moon and stars.
They married in the garden. Under the iron arch that’s still standing, wrapped in jasmine and magnolia.
I’m going to marry Cassia there. Where it started. Where love built this family before grief tore it apart.
Cosi sia.So be it.
The garden is different in morning light. I walk the gravel paths, taking stock. The arch needs cleaning. The stone bench where Papa sat after she was gone, staring at nothing, waiting to join her.
I stop at that bench. Press my palm to the cold surface.
“I’m not you,” I tell him.
The words scrape out. Raw.
“I’m not going to sit here and die by inches.”
My hand curls against the stone. The cold bites into my knuckles.
The garden doesn’t answer. But something behind my ribs unclenches. A loosening I don’t fight.
“Dante?”
I turn. Nonna Rosa stands at the edge of the path, silver hair pinned back, apron tied around her waist even though it’s notyet seven. She’s been with this family since before I was born. Held me when Mama died and Papa forgot how to be a father.
“You shouldn’t be up,cher.” That familiar lilt, the New Orleans rhythm that sounds like music. “Gia said rest.”
“Gia worries too much.”
“Gia knows what she’s talkin’ about.” Nonna crosses her arms. “You near died, boy. Don’t go pretendin’ that don’t matter.”
“I’m not pretending.” I turn back to the arch. “I’m planning.”
Quiet. Then her footsteps crunch on the gravel, and she’s beside me.
