Page 102 of Ruthless Grace

“Don’t let Marco fool you with that choirboy nod, either,” Izzy adds, pointing her fork at him. “He’s been living at that fight club of his—overseeing the books all day and stepping into the cage himself at night.”

“Somebody has to keep the odds honest,” Marco says, lifting his glass without a shred of shame, and the table laughs again.

When the cannoli platter is empty, Dante pushes back his chair and touches my shoulder. “Walk with me, Gia. Mama’s roses are blooming.”

We step off the flagstones onto the garden path, out of earshot of the table, where the white jasmine climbs the old brick and the afternoon hum of the family softens behind us.

Dante touches Papa’s signet ring, his face softening with a deep, vulnerable emotion. The heavy armor of the Don is completely stripped away, leaving only my big brother.

“Gia,” Dante says. “I need to say this. I spent weeks sick to my stomach over what happened. I thought I was making a choice to protect you, but I took away your choice. I failed as your brother, and I’m so sorry.”

I don’t lecture him. I don’t recite old rules or bring up contracts. I look at my big brother, the man who took the weight of the world on his shoulders when we were just kids, who gave up his own youth so the rest of us could grow up safe.

I reach out, wrapping my hand over his trembling fingers.

“Dante, look at me,” I say gently. “You spent your whole life being our shield. You made a choice out of terrifying, overwhelming love because you wanted to keep me breathing. And look where we are.”

I glance back through the roses at the garden table, at Luca laughing at something Nico said, completely at ease among the men who once wanted him dead.

“I’m happy, Dante,” I tell my brother, meeting his eyes again. “I have my dream hospital, I have my family, and I have a husband who would tear the world down just to see me smile. You don’t have to carry the guilt anymore. There’s nothing left to forgive. I love you.”

Dante lets out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes glistening with deep emotional relief as he squeezes my hand back. “I love you too, principessa.”

He kisses my forehead, and we walk back toward the table together.

Nonna Rosa is waiting for me at the kitchen doorway with a stack of empty platters in her arms that she immediately hands off to Izzy. Her dry, strong fingers catch my wrist, and she draws me one step into the cool shade of the doorway.

Her hand comes up to my collarbone, to the cream-white pearls resting there, and turns the antique gold clasp until the carved rose faces the light.

“The day your mother gave me these, she made me swear to give you only half her words,” Nonna Rosa says quietly, her dark eyes glistening. “The first half you heard on your wedding day.”

She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small envelope, the cream paper gone soft at the corners from years of safekeeping. My name is written across the front in my mother’s looping hand: Giada.

“She told me to hold this until I saw you sitting at her table beside a man you chose.”

My breath stills against the cold weight of the pearls. I break the aged wax seal and unfold a single page.

I am so sorry I am not beside you to see the man you choose, tesoro. Know that your mother loves you with every breath I took, and every breath I leave behind.

We were born into dark ledgers and forced vows—but I chose your father long after the violence that brought us together, and so never forget: you are no man’s currency. You are a Santoro woman. The choosing is yours. May your husband be a man who chooses you back every single day, until the breathing stops.

A soft, trembling tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek. My mother’s voice reaching across time, in her own hand, to bless the choice I made.

I fold the letter along her creases, slide it back into its envelope, and tuck it inside my dress pocket, flat over my heart. I press Nonna Rosa’s weathered hand against the rose clasp, completely undone. The old woman nods once—message delivered, sacred duty complete—and gently wipes my tear away before shooing me back toward the sunlight.

The rest of the afternoon flows into rich, chaotic, beautiful family warmth. Nonna Rosa’s directives ring out over the table, Izzy and Mila argue playfully over dessert recipes, and Nico sits back laughing with Marco.

Beneath the white linen tablecloth, out of view of my four brothers, Luca’s large, warm hand rests possessively over my knee. His thumb traces slow, soothing circles over my skin through the silk of my dress.

I slide my fingers down and tangle them firmly with his, feeling the strong, steady throb of his pulse against my palm.

Luca leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath warm and intoxicating against my neck. “I love you, my wife,” he whispers softly.

I turn my head, kissing his jawline, feeling the rough stubble against my lips. “I love you, husband.”

Across the table, Dante catches Luca’s eye. My eldest brother lifts his wine glass two inches in a silent, final toast, the same look the two of them traded over my scar and his blood at this family’s table, finally allowed to mean what it always meant.

Luca lifts his glass in return, taking a slow sip.