"That's not assurance."
"That's a description."
Marco waits. The wind cuts between us, sharp and cold.
"Then tell him I'll handle it," I say.
"Handle it how?"
"The way I handle everything."
Marco studies me, his expression unreadable. "That's not an answer either."
The quad sits empty around us. Wind slides through the bare branches, a sound like dry bones.
"You're worried about a college newspaper, Marco. Papà's worried about a college newspaper. The Chronicle has a circulation of four thousand. She covers line changes and penalty kills."
Marco turns up the collar of his overcoat, a slow, deliberate motion. "She covers your line changes," he says. "Your penalty kills." His eyes flick over my face, catching the tension I can't fully hide. "That's different."
He turns and starts back toward the driveway. I fall into step beside him, my own footsteps echoing his on the salted pavement.
The Escalade is still idling when we reach the house, exhaust curling around the rear tires. Marco stops beside the driver's door.
"Sign the papers," he says. "Before March."
"I said I would."
"And the journalist—"
"I said I'd handle it."
He opens the door and rests one hand on the frame. He pauses there, his knuckles white against the black paint. "Philadelphia, Dante. Think about it. Close to home." He glances at me, and for a second the mask slips. "Close to us."
Something moves behind the calm. His hand on the car frame tightens for a second, tendons standing out. His eyes hold mine and for a beat Marco is just my brother. The one who held my shoulders on a frozen pond outside Milan while my ankles shook on the blades. The one who took me to my first Serie A match. The one who sits across from our father in rooms I'll eventually sit in too and carries the weight of it without ever once saying it's heavy.
"Take care of yourself," he says. Quieter. "Mamma worries. I worry too. That part isn't business."
He gets in. The door shuts with a dull thud that vibrates through the cold air. The Escalade rolls down the driveway and turns toward the street, tires crunching over gravel.
I stand there until the red taillights slip around the corner and disappear. The driveway goes quiet, the engine noise fading into the background hum of campus. Cold air settles into the space where the car was, sharp against my skin. My hands are in fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. My jaw is locked so tight the muscle jumps under my skin. The tension sits across my shoulders like a steel bar, and I can't make it fucking go away.
I go inside.
The kitchen is empty. Marco's coffee cup sits on the counter, cold now, the last trace of espresso pooling in the bottom, dark and bitter. I wash it, watching the residue swirl down the drain until the water runs clear. Set the cup on the rack where it will dry and look like nobody was here. Like he was never here.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Cole: Practice at 3. You eating first?
Me: Dining hall. 1:30.
Cole: I'll grab Maya. She forgets to eat when she's editing.
I'll grab Maya.The sentence sits on the screen, glowing up at me. Cole knows she forgets to eat. He knows she'll come when he asks. He sat beside her on the couch the night of the party with his arm along the back of the cushion, an inch from her neck. He told me she spiked the story. He brings two coffees to her desk every morning and knows how she takes hers.
Lately, I catch the precision of what Cole knows—the way he knows her habits, the way he knows how to get her to show up, the way he knows things about her I'm still guessing at.
And now Cole is bringing her directly across from me at a table.
