“Here?” she asks, voice low.
“Where else?”
“Oh,cher.” Her hand finds my arm, squeezes. “Your Mama would be so happy.”
I keep my eyes on the arch. My jaw locks.
Cristo.
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Nonna Rosa’s voice thickens. “I was there, you know. When your Papa married her. Right under that arch. She was so beautiful, Dante.Mais,she was shakin’ like a leaf, scared out of her mind. But when she looked at him.”
Nonna laughs. Watery.
“When she looked at Salvatore, all that fear melted away. She knew. Even then. That he was hers.”
I think of Cassia. Walking into my study in that burgundy dress. No fear. No hesitation. Just those steady eyes meeting mine like she’d already made her decision before I’d made mine.
Tesoro.That’s what she is. What she’s always been.
“Your girl reminds me of her,” Nonna says. “Lucia. Not the way she looks, but how she sees. Your mama could look right through a person. See what they were hidin’. Cassia’s got that too.”
“She saw through me from the start.”
“‘Course she did, dawlin’. You ain’t that hard to read when you’re in love.”
I don’t deny it. No point. Not anymore.
“I want it right,” I tell her. “The wedding. What Mama had.”
“She don’t need perfect.” Nonna pats my arm. “She just needs you. Showin’ up. Choosin’ her in front of God and everyone.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then that’s enough.” She wipes her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Now. Let me help you,cher. I still remember every flower your mama carried, every song they played. We’ll make it beautiful. For both of you.”
Heat burns behind my eyes. I blink it back. Grind my teeth until it passes.
“Grazie,Nonna.”
“None of that.” She swats my arm. “Come inside. I’ll make coffee and we’ll figure out what needs doin’. You got a week, and we got work.”
The phone call I’ve been putting off.
I sit at my desk, the photograph of my parents propped against the lamp. Nonna’s gone to inventory linens and flowers. The compound wakes up around me. Voices in the hallway. The smell of breakfast from the kitchen.
I dial Umberto Neri.
Four rings. Five. I’m about to hang up when he answers.
“Santoro.” Careful. Wary. We haven’t spoken since the rushed ceremony. He knows what happened. The poison. What his invisible daughter did. How she traced the conspiracy, handed the evidence to my family, sat at my bedside while I fought to stay breathing.
“Neri.”
Silence. Two men who understand what this world costs.
I don’t ask his permission. I don’t perform the ceremony of respect between families.
