Page 59 of Twisted Vows

“I’d like to see her today.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Get yourself ready.”

Relief and dread crash together, his promise a lifeline I’m not sure I trust.

The crunch of boots interrupts my thoughts. Marco and Gio arrive, their shoulders slumped, dark circles under their eyes like they haven’t slept. They look at me differently now. Respect? Recognition of rank as Ricci’s wife? The shift is bittersweet.

Enzo barks instructions to them about things he needs them to fix, then tells Gio to get a car ready.

As I walk through the Benedetti corridors with Enzo beside me, the change sharpens. Soldiers who sneered at me days ago now nod as I pass. Before, I was a prisoner. Today, apparently, I’m furniture carved into status. A small part of me even likes the validation. “We travel alone,” Enzo says as the car doors open. His tone brooks no argument. “Fewer eyes. Less noise.”

I slide into the passenger seat of the Maserati, where his grip on the wheel stays tight and his eyes constantly check the mirrors. He’s on edge, and that makes me nervous.

The silence needles. “Why so watchful?”

His reply is clipped. “It never hurts to be careful, and I’m concerned about having a tail.”

I shiver at the worry in his voice. “Should we head back?”

“No.” His voice drops, quiet but certain. “You see Elena today.”

My heart stumbles.

Soon, the hospital swallows us in its antiseptic glow. Machines beep steadily, monitors hum, and slippers squeak across linoleum. The world I once trusted, a civilian sanctuary, now feels warped under his shadow.

But no one dares question him. Nurses straighten, clerks glance down, and orderlies step aside. Authority clings to him like smoke. Doors open without resistance. My cheeks burn with both gratitude and shame at letting him clear paths I once demanded I walk alone.

Mama has been moved into a smaller ward, where the blinds cut sunlight into stripes. They claim they need the space in the bigger ward for someone with more mobility. Passioni di Roma plays on the TV in the corner, reminding me of our old Saturday ritual. We used to curl up on the couch together, guessing plot twists and laughing at the dramatic declarations of love. Now, as the screen casts colors across her slack face, she doesn’t even flinch at the familiar theme music. The ache is unbearable.

I rush to her side, dropping to my knees like a child, smoothing blankets, clutching her hands. I start to talk, my words spilling out fast and desperate as I try to capture her fragile attention. Her eyes open, and her warm yet uncertain fingers tremble.

Then Enzo strides closer, and Mama’s body stiffens immediately. Her eyes widen with agitation. She grabs my hand, tightly enough to hurt, her nails digging crescent moons into my skin. Her whisper slices the air. “Dante. Dante. Dante.”

The name tumbles out like a frantic prayer and warning tangled together.

I can’t breathe. The name Dante is familiar—too familiar—but I can’t place it. Why would my father have mentioned him? Why do photographs glimpsed in half-light flash across my mind?

It feels like I’m rehashing nightmares.

I look at Enzo.

His face pales.

“Mama…Mama?” I stumble over my words. But she repeats the name, pointing, her eyes locked on Enzo as if he is both a specter and an executioner.

“Dante…testimony?”

The temperature plummets, and the room tilts. A memory from five years ago, soon after my mother landed in the hospital, slams into me, still sharp and vivid. I was home alone, with my father missing for a whole week when the men in dark suits came to visit. They towered over me, their voices gentle and coaxing as they told me they would help me find my father and asked me questions. Pictures slid across the polished table. Faces I didn’t recognize. “Do you know any of these people?”

I knew I shouldn’t identify anyone. At twenty, I knew enough of my father’s dangerous world, even without the highway debacle that happened just weeks prior.

At that moment, I was consumed with anger at my father who had barely been at the hospital or even at home. I wanted to hurt him, so I pointed fingers. “That one. He came to our house. And him. I saw him with my father.”

The men flashed smiles and showered praises, telling me I was so brave and good, and I was keeping everyone safe.

I bought the bullshit and convinced myself I did the right thing.

“Tell me.” Even though my chin trembles, the command has an edge. “Tell me the truth. What did my father do? What did I…what did it cost?”