My mouth opens. Closes. I don’t have a word for what’s happening inside my chest. It’s not a thought. It’s not an insight. It’s the mirror showing me someone I spent twenty-four years convincing myself I’d never get to be.
“I think I’m ready.”
The knock comes fifteen minutes later. Heavier than Nonna Rosa’s. More hesitant than Giada’s.
I know who it is before the door opens.
“Cassia?”
My father stands at the threshold. Umberto Neri. He’s wearing a suit I’ve never seen before. Dark gray, tailored sharp. His hair is grayer than I remember. When did that happen?
“Papa.”
He steps into the room. Stops. His eyes travel over me, and his throat works. Once. Twice.
“Cassia.” His voice breaks on my name. “You look like you belong here.”
My hand finds the fabric of the dress. Grips it. I stare at a point past his shoulder until my vision steadies.
“Thank you.”
His eyes shine. He clears his throat, straightens his tie.
“Your mother is downstairs. She’s already crying.”
“She cries at everything.”
“She cries at this.” He steps closer. Hesitates. Then pulls me into a hug.
It’s stiff. Unpracticed. We’ve never been a family that touches.
I let him hold me anyway.
“I should have seen you sooner,” he says, his voice low. “I should have paid attention.”
“Papa.” I pull back. Meet his eyes. “Not today. Today isn’t for the past. Today is for what comes next.”
He nods. Swallows hard.
“You can walk me down the aisle. That’s what matters.”
His face shifts. Not a smile. More fragile than that.
“I’d be honored.”
Giada appears at the threshold, eyes red-rimmed but grinning.
“They’re ready. The garden is gorgeous. And Dante looks like he’s about to fight someone for the privilege of watching you walk toward him.”
My pulse slams against my wrists.
I take my father’s arm.
“Then let’s not keep him waiting.”
The compound is alive. Voices drift up from the garden. Bright, not tense. I hear Nonna Rosa’s laughter, Marco’s voice, conversations layered over each other like music. A string quartet plays something classical and warm.
Through the window at the top of the stairs, I catch a glimpse of the garden. White chairs arranged in rows. Flowers cascading from the iron arch where his parents stood thirty-four years ago. Faces I recognize. Santoro soldiers, family, the people who make up this dangerous world I’ve chosen.
