Page 261 of Dante
"Giuseppe—"
"Giuseppe is dead." I cut him off. "Has been for years. And whatever sins he committed, whatever blood is on his hands—that's between him and Devil."
I lean closer.
"But you?" I smile. "You're between me and my family. And that's a very dangerous place to be."
The Russian approaches. Stands beside me. Waits.
"We're going to spend some wonderful time together," I tell Alejandro. "You, me. And all our brothers."
Marina
I've worn a path in the carpet.
Back and forth. Window to door. Door to window.
My feet know the route by now, have memorized every creak in the floorboard, every slight dip where the wood has settled over decades. I should sit down. I know I should sit down. But sitting means stillness, and stillness means thinking, and thinking means imagining all the ways this morning could go wrong.
The living room feels too small. Too quiet. Sophia sits on the couch with her hand pressed against her stomach, not showing yet of course but already protective.
Lorenzo stands behind her, alive and breathing and here, his fingers absently stroking her hair. They don't speak. None of us speak. What is there to say when we don't know what's happening?
Bruno leans against the fireplace mantel with his arms crossed. His jaw hasn't unclenched since breakfast. Since before breakfast. Since Dante left in the early hours of the morning with nothing but a kiss pressed to my forehead and a whispered promise that he'd come back to me.
I believed him. I have to believe him. The alternative is a darkness I refuse to let myself touch.
Nico sits in the corner chair, his tablet dark on his lap. Even he isn't working.
Kristen left an hour ago to take Lily to school, maintaining the illusion of normalcy that none of us feel.
Vittoria and Dmitri are somewhere else entirely, part of whatever plan Dante constructed in the shadows, the plan none of us were allowed to know.
I hate not knowing. I hate the silence and the waiting and the way my imagination fills every quiet moment with worst-case scenarios. Dante bleeding out on a warehouse floor. Dante captured and tortured. Dante dead before anyone can reach him, before I can tell him that I love him, that I choose him, that I'm not going anywhere.
My hand cramps. I shake it out without breaking stride, without acknowledging the pain that shoots up my wrist. The nerve damage flares when I'm stressed. Always has.
Window. Door. Window again.
"Marina." Nico's voice is gentle. "Sit down. Please."
"I can't."
"You're making me dizzy."
"Then close your eyes."
He laughs softly. The sound is wrong in this room, too light for the weight pressing down on all of us. But it's Nico, and Nico has always found humor in impossible moments. It's how he survives. How they all survive.
I reach the window and stop. The grounds stretch out before me, manicured and peaceful, betraying nothing of the violence that has touched this family. Somewhere out there, beyond the gates and the guards, Dante is facing whatever he couldn't tell us about. Whatever made him leave in the dark with nothing but a whispered promise to come back. Whoever is waiting for him doesn't know Dante at all. Doesn't understand that loyalty, for Dante, isn't a weakness to be exploited. It's the core of who he is. The foundation everything else is built on.
I turn back to the room. Resume pacing.
Bruno's phone rings.
Everyone freezes.
He pulls it from his pocket. Checks the screen. His expression doesn't change, but something in his shoulders shifts, some tension releasing by the smallest degree.
