"I need some air," I mutter, heading for the door.
"Dante," Rina calls after me. "She'll call. When she's ready, she'll call."
I don't answer, because I'm not sure I believe her. And even if she does call, what if the answer is goodbye?
The morning air hits my face as I step outside, but it doesn't do anything to cool the fire burning in my chest. Somewhere out there, Sofia is alone, thinking about whether I'm worth the price of admission to this fucked-up world we call family.
And for the first time since I was thirteen years old, I'm not sure what the answer to that question is.
CHAPTER 37
Sofia
The driveto Long Island passes in relative silence, the city gradually giving way to suburban sprawl and then to something greener, more open. Marco doesn't try to make conversation beyond asking if I need to stop for anything, and I'm grateful for that. My thoughts are too tangled, too raw for small talk.
I watch the scenery change through the passenger window, noting how the houses get bigger and more spaced out the further we drive from the city. By the time Marco turns onto a private road marked only by a discrete stone pillar, we're in a different world entirely—one of manicured lawns, old trees, and the kind of quiet money that doesn't need to announce itself.
The villa comes into view as we round a curve, and I have to catch my breath. It's not what I expected. Instead of the imposing fortress-like structure I'd imagined, this house is elegant and understated—white stone and large windows, with climbing ivy and flower boxes that make it look more like a painting than a Mafia don's retreat.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Marco says, the first words he's spoken in over an hour.
"It's not what I pictured," I admit.
"Vito had it built about ten years ago. Wanted something that felt like a home instead of a stronghold." He parks in the circular driveway, but doesn't immediately get out. "Place has good energy. Peaceful."
We sit there for a moment, both looking at the house. I can hear birds singing, and beyond that, the distant sound of water. The contrast to the chaos I've been living in is almost overwhelming.
"I should probably get your bag," Marco says finally, but he makes no move toward the trunk.
"Marco." I turn to face him, studying his weathered features. "How long have you known Dante?"
He's quiet for a long moment, considering the question. "Going on fifteen years now. Since Vito brought him in."
"What was he like then? When he first arrived?"
Marco's expression softens slightly. "Angry. Scared, though he'd have died before admitting it. Lost everything that mattered to him and didn't know how to exist in the world anymore." He looks at me directly. "Vito gave him purpose, family, a reason to keep breathing. But Dante... he never learned how to want things for himself. Only how to be what other people needed."
The words hit deeper than I expect. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've watched him for fifteen years, and I've never seen him want something the way he wants you. Not just want—need. Like you're air and he's been holding his breath his whole life." Marco runs a hand through his graying hair. "For what it's worth, I think you're good for him. You make him remember he's more than just Vito's weapon."
"And if I decide I can't do this? Can't live this life?"
"Then that's your choice to make," he says simply. "But I hope you'll think about what kind of man would walk away fromeverything he's ever known for a chance to be with you. That's not obsession or control—that's love in its purest form."
Before I can respond, Marco gets out and retrieves my small duffle bag from the trunk. I follow him to the front door, my legs unsteady after the long drive.
He produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, gesturing for me to enter first. The interior is just as surprising as the exterior—warm hardwood floors, comfortable furniture that looks actually lived-in rather than just expensive, and everywhere, windows that let in natural light.
"Mrs. Chen comes by three times a week," Marco explains, setting my bag down in the foyer. "She's the caretaker—older woman, been working for Vito for years. Don't be alarmed if you see her puttering around. She'll mostly leave you alone unless you need something."
I nod, still taking in my surroundings. There are books on the shelves that look like they've actually been read, artwork that seems chosen for love rather than investment value. It feels like a real home, not a showcase.
Marco reaches into his jacket and pulls out a simple black cell phone. "There's only one number programmed into this," he says, placing it on the hall table. "When you're ready to come home, call it."
When you're ready to come home.The assumption that I will want to come back both comforts and terrifies me.
"Marco," I say as he heads toward the door. "Thank you. For driving me, for... everything."
