Page 489 of Rosetti Family New York

Luca spears a baby tomato and pops it into his mouth whole. "I was taking care of business."

"What kind of business?" I ask, though part of me isn't sure I want to know the answer. And I damn sure don't want Van to know the answer.

Luca's smile widens, and I catch a glimpse of something that makes my blood sing with recognition and terror in equal measure—the same darkness I've been discovering in myself, the capacity for violence that runs in our family like eye color or the shape of our hands. For me, it's about how much violence I can handle, how much it turns me on when it's administered lovingly by Van. "The kind that requires very specific skills," Luca says, cutting into his meal with the same casual precision Marco used earlier. "The kind that makes people disappear so thoroughly that even their nonnas forget they ever existed."

His eyes meet mine across the table, and I see my own darkness reflected back at me. Whatever I've become during my time with Van, whatever strength I've discovered in submission, Luca recognizes it immediately.

"How thoroughly are we talking?" The question escapes before I can stop it, and I hear the genuine interest in my own voice with a shock that makes me sit back. When did I become someone who wants details about making people disappear? But even as I think it, I'm still waiting for his answer, still fascinated in a way that should terrify me but doesn't.

Luca's laugh is soft, delighted, like I've passed some test I didn't know I was taking. "Completely, cousin. As if they never existed at all."

Something shifts inside me, like a door I didn't know existed just swung open. The good Rosetti daughter who ran away to sell art should be appalled. Instead, I'm… intrigued? No, that's too mild. I'm fascinated, and the realization hits me like one of those moments in a gallery when you suddenly see what the artist intended—I'm not just rainbows. I never was. The darkness was always there, waiting for permission to exist.

Dante slides a piece of paper across the table to Marco, who reads it and nods. The silent communication is seamless, practiced. I wonder what it's like for Dante, trapped in silence but still commanding respect through presence alone.

"The Torrinos," Marco begins, his voice carrying absolute authority, "have become bolder since your father's death. The attack at your gallery last month wasn't random."

My chest tightens. Van's hand finds mine under the table, and I draw strength from his steady presence, from the fact he didn't run screaming from the table when he learned what my cousins do for fun.

I take a sip of wine, letting the rich Barolo coat my tongue while I process this. The restaurant sounds filter back—soft jazz, the clink of silverware from the main dining room, normal people having normal dinners while we discuss territorial warfare over handmade pasta and rare steak.

"They think the New York family is vulnerable," Sofia adds, and there's something almost eager in her tone. "They're wrong, of course. But perception matters in our world."

I catch Van glancing at me.

"Which is why," Marco continues, "Domenico asked us to ensure your protection while you're in Chicago. Family looks after family."

"I'm looking after her," Van growls.

Marco pauses with his wine glass in midair. "Nobody in this family acts alone."

I scoff. That's exactly the kind of attitude I was running away from. I take a sip of wine, letting the rich Barolo coat my tongue while I process this. The restaurant sounds filter back—soft jazz, the clink of silverware from the main dining room, normal people having normal dinners while we discuss territorial warfare over handmade pasta. Dante slides another note, this time to me. His handwriting is elegant, precise:You're brave to run. Braver to come back.

Something warm unfolds in my chest. He understands. Somehow, this silent cousin understands the war between independence and family loyalty that's been tearing me apart.

"Thank you," I tell him softly, and his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him. I trace my finger along the stem of my wine glass, watching the light refract through the deep red liquid. Around us, the restaurant continues its elegant dance—somewhere in the main room, someone's celebrating a birthday, voices raised in off-key singing. The normalcy of it makes our conversation feel even more surreal.

"The real question," Luca interjects, twirling a butter knife between his fingers with disturbing skill, "is whether we handle this quietly or make an example."

Luca pauses to actually eat something, cutting into his veal with the same precision he probably uses for… other activities. The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly, but it's heavy with everything we're not saying out loud. Van's breathing has steadied beside me, his tactical mind probably cataloging every detail for later analysis.

"The Torrinos are like cancer," Luca continues. "Cut out what you can see, but the real danger is what's spreading underneath."

"We protect our own," Marco states, and it's not a discussion. "Van, I assume you're capable?"

"More than," Van responds, and there's ice in his voice that makes me shiver.

Sofia laughs, light and tinkling like champagne glasses. "Oh, I like him. He's not afraid of us." She leans forward, and her sweetness sharpens into something lethal. "Most people are, you know."

The room goes still. Even Luca stops playing with the knife. The candles on our table flicker, casting shadows that dance across everyone's faces. I realize I'm memorizing this moment—the way my family looks in candlelight, discussing violence over an expensive meal. It's beautifully twisted, like a Caravaggio painting come to life.

"Sofia," Marco warns.

"Jesus," Van breathes, and I feel his respect shift, recognizing a predator.

Oh God, I'm actually enjoying this. The thought should send me running, but instead I feel something click into place, like finding a painting's perfect lighting. All those years of being protected from this side of the family, and it turns out I'm not horrified by it—I'm coming home to it.

Dante slides Marco another note. Marco reads it, then looks at me. "You've been establishing yourself in the art world. That's good. Legitimate businesses are useful covers."