Page 60

Francesca

Three days have passed since the attack at the ruins.

Dante has remained locked in the study, emerging only for meals taken in tense silence, his eyes constantly fixed to his phone.

The cut on his hand has begun to heal, but something else has fractured between us.

The intimacy we'd begun to build crumbles like the ancient stones where he killed a man to protect me. Where he told me he would die before letting anyone touch me.

I find myself standing at the kitchen window, watching raindrops trace patterns down glass while Maria kneads more dough. She must be getting tired of all this extra work by now, but you wouldn't know it by looking at her.

The storm outside arrived overnight, sky the color of bruises, thunder echoing across the valley like distant artillery.

"Stop worrying so much. He has always been this way," Maria says, following my gaze to where Dante paces on the terrace, phone pressed to his ear. "Even as a boy, he was just like his father. When troubled, he retreats."

I smile faintly. "Some things never change."

"But some things do,cara mia." She shapes the dough with flour-dusted fingers. "I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"What was he like? Dante's father?" I ask, watching Maria's hands work the dough with practiced ease. "I know he favored Luca, but..."

Maria's movements still for a heartbeat. Her weathered fingers curl into the soft dough before resuming their rhythm. "Vito Ravelli was... complicated. He saw his sons as pieces on a chessboard. Luca was his king, Dante his knight." She sighs. "But a knight can only move in L-shapes,cara. Always indirect."

Thunder cracks overhead, making the windows rattle. On the terrace, Dante's shoulders tense at whatever he's hearing through the phone.

"And Elena? Did she try to stop him?"

"She tried to love them equally." Maria wipes her hands on her apron. "But even a mother's love cannot always heal what a father breaks."

She reaches for a ceramic cup, filling it with fresh espresso. The rich aroma cuts through the moisture drifting in from outside.

"Take this to him," she says, pressing the warm cup into my hands. "He hasn't eaten since breakfast, and it's nearly sunset."

I stare at the dark liquid, steam curling up like question marks. "He doesn't want to be disturbed."

"Sciocchezze." Maria clicks her tongue. "What he wants and what he needs are different things. Go. Before the rain gets worse."

I carry a freshly poured espresso out to the covered terrace where Dante has been pacing for the last hour, phone pressed against his ear.

He's still dressed in last night's clothes, hair disheveled from repeatedly running his hands through it. Dark circles beneath his eyes reveal sleepless nights spent beside me, sometimes touching me, sometimes not.

He sees me approach but continues his conversation, voice lowered as he speaks rapid Italian into the phone. The rain creates a steady percussion against the terrace roof, providing a natural sound barrier for whatever secrets he's discussing.

As I set the espresso on the small iron table, he ends the call abruptly and turns to face me.

"You look like you need this," I say, nodding toward the steaming cup.

His expression is tense, jaw clenched tight as he reaches for the coffee.

"I received a call," he says, eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "From Nico."

My pulse quickens at the name. Dante's youngest brother, the one who stayed loyal to Luca after Dante's exile.

"What did he want?"

"A meeting. In Rome." Dante's jaw tightens. "He claims to have information critical to my...our…future."

"You don't believe him."