Progress.
As we drove through the city, the sun starting to dip lower, I felt strangely light. Marco was grumpy, sarcastic, and clearly counting down the minutes until he could hand me back to Santino, but there was something almost… nice about it.
He felt like family. Annoying, reluctant, perpetually irritated family. And for a girl who had lost almost everything, that didn’t feel half bad.
“Last question,” I said as we pulled up to the final destination.
Marco groaned. “What now?”
“Do you think Santino will be done training yet? I kind of miss the non-sweaty, not-as-violent version of him.”
Marco looked like he wanted to drive the car into a wall.
“I’m begging you,” he said flatly. “Never say anything like that to me again.”
The final stop was a tiny bakery tucked between a closed florist and a cobbler’s shop on a narrow side street. The rain had started just as we parked, soft at first, then steady, the kind that turns the city into watercolor streaks on the windows. Marco killed the engine with a long-suffering sigh.
“Five minutes,” he warned. “In and out.”
I unbuckled, already grinning. “You say that like I don’t know how to behave in public.”
“You don’t,” he hissed.
The bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle as we stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around us, sugar, espresso, vanilla, and something buttery that made my stomach rumble.
The café was small, only a handful of tables covered in red-checkered cloths, a few elderly patrons nursing tiny cups of coffee while rain pattered against the windows. It felt like stepping into someone’s nonna’s kitchen.
An old man with flour-dusted apron and kind eyes looked up from behind the counter. His face lit up the second he saw Marco.
“Marco! Figlio mio,” he called, coming around the counter faster than a man his age should move. He pulled Marco into a quick, back-slapping hug. “You brought company today?”
Before Marco could answer, the baker’s gaze landed on me. His smile softened, turning almost grandfatherly. “Ah. La ragazza di Santo. We heard about you.”
My eyebrows shot up. La ragazza di Santo. The girl of Santo.
Not Santino. Santo. Like they’d known him since he was small enough to steal cookies from the display case.
Marco cleared his throat, looking mildly embarrassed. “Signore Brunetti, this is Aurora. Aurora, Signore Brunetti makes the best cannoli in the city.”
“Only because Santo taught my grandson the secret to the filling when he was twelve,” Signor Rossi said with a wink. He didn’t wait for me to respond, just started boxing up pastries like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Tell him we miss his face around here. The boy works too hard.”
He slid an extra box across the counter, free, filled with sfogliatelle, almond cookies, and a couple of glistening cannoli dusted so perfectly they looked like art.
“For you, cara. On the house. You tell Santo to come see us soon, eh? Bring his appetite.”
I accepted the box, a little stunned. “I… will.”
Marco paid for our order anyway, but Signore Brunetti waved off half the money with a stubborn shake of his head.
A little boy, maybe six or seven, peeked out from behind the counter, clutching a half-eaten biscuit. His eyes went wide when he saw Marco.
“Is Mister Santo coming today?” he asked, voice full of hope. “He promised he’d show me how to punch like him next time.”
Marco ruffled the kid’s hair with surprising gentleness. “Not today, Damiano. But I’ll tell him you asked.”
The boy’s face fell for half a second before he brightened again. “Tell him I’ve been practicing!”
A grandmother at one of the tables, tiny, silver-haired, with a black shawl draped over her shoulders, called Marco over. She grabbed his face with both hands when he bent down and kissed his cheek with loud affection.
