Page 9 of Code Name: Dante

The evening air had grown crisp by the time I pulled into the driveway of the Victorian house where I’d grown up. Its gingerbread trim and wraparound porch were barely visible in the darkness, but I knew every inch by heart. The porch swing where Gram had told me stories on summer evenings. The window boxes she still insisted on filling with geraniums every spring. The creaky third step I always skipped.

“That you, little bird?” Gram called out as I entered, using the nickname she’d given me when I was small.

“It’s me,” I confirmed, following her voice to the kitchen. The familiar scent of her marinara sauce filled the air, bringing with it memories of countless times she and I had stood in this kitchen, making it together. Before I moved to the city. Before Gram started forgetting things.

She stood at the stove, stirring a pot with the same wooden spoon she’d used for as long as I could remember. Her silver hair was pulled back in its usual neat bun, though a few wisps had escaped to frame her face. “You’re late tonight.”

“I had to do inventory.” I didn’t mention Alessandro’s visit or the black sedan. First, I had to make a plan. She didn’t need more reasons to worry. “The sauce smells amazing.”

“Your great-grandmother’s recipe.” She tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot. “The secret is?—”

“Adding a pinch of sugar to cut the acidity,” I finished with her, managing a smile despite my churning thoughts. “And letting it simmer for exactly three hours.”

She nodded approvingly. “At least someone in this family still remembers the old ways, little bird.”

The weight of those words settled heavily between us. So much of our family history had been lost—first to the fire that had destroyed the factory, then to time and forgetting. Every recipe, every story, every tradition that remained felt precious, like fragments of a shattered mirror we were trying to piece back together.

“Help me with these meatballs?” She gestured to the bowl of mixed ingredients waiting on the counter. “Your hands are younger than mine.”

I washed up and began rolling the meat mixture into perfect spheres, like she’d taught me. The repetitive motion was soothing, helping to calm my nerves as I tried to figure out how to broach the subject of leaving. I wished it was enough to stop Alessandro’s words from echoing in my head. “How would you feel if something happened to Gram?”

“You’re quiet tonight,” she observed, adding more basil to the sauce. “Something on your mind?”

“I’m thinking about the shop.” I placed another meatball on the waiting tray. “We might need to adjust our hours.”

“Adjust our hours?” Her voice sharpened. “Why?”

I took a deep breath. “There’ve been some…incidents. Security concerns.”

The wooden spoon clattered against the stovetop. “What kind of incidents?”

“Warnings,” I hedged.

“Does this have something to do with the very well-dressed man Mrs. Swenson mentioned seeing entering the shop shortly before you closed? The one with dark, slicked-back hair.” Her voice took on an edge I knew too well. “He reminded her of someone.”

Of course Mrs. Swenson had noticed. In a small town like ours, nothing went unobserved. “He was just passing through,” I said. “Wanted to try our Matcha.”

“Come now, Lark. You’re telling me a Castellano wanted tea?” Gram’s laugh held no humor. “They only want one thing, little bird. Control.”

“He works with Alice’s new husband now,” I began, only stretching the truth a little. My understanding was he didn’t yet but would soon. “It’s because of him that his older brother was arrested and is awaiting trial. He said we need protection.”

Her eyes opened wide, and her face held an expression of disgust. “A Castellano suggesting protection? Ha! Now, where have I heard that before? He’s no different than his grandfather, father, or brother.”

I thought of Alessandro’s gentle hands as he learned to handle the delicate bamboo whisk, so different from the brutal enforcer I’d expected. How his eyes had softened when he smiled. But I also remembered the steel in his voice when he’d insisted on protecting me, the authority that radiated from him even in that peaceful setting.

“You’re wrong, Gram. Not all of them are the same.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“A convenient change of heart.” She shook her head. “After his family destroyed so many lives? After what they did to our family’s factory? Not just ours, you know? The Castellanos caused the demise of an entire industry with their control of the unions. Between their extortion demands and the pressure from the union bosses to increase wages and benefits, there was no way any manufacturer could survive.”

I doubted that was the only reason the glove industry had declined to the point of extinction, but she was right. It certainly had added to it. “That was decades ago.”

“And yet the scars are still here.” Her voice rose. “Every empty storefront, every family that had to leave town—that’s their legacy. A legacy his brother carried on until someone finally stopped him.” She gripped the counter, her knuckles white. “Did I ever tell you that Vincenzo Castellano came to see your great-grandfather before the fire?”

I froze. This was a new story, one I’d never heard before. “Vincenzo?”

“He ran the crime family back in those days before his son, Vincent Sr., took over. Anyway, according to my mother, he walked right into the showroom, bold as brass. Said times were changing, that we needed ‘protection.’ My father told him our reputation was all the protection we needed.” Her eyes grew distant, lost in memory. “A week later, the factory burned. And who was right there to offer to buy the land for pennies on the dollar?”

My stomach churned. I thought of the threatening letter Alessandro said he’d dedicated his life to stopping, along with the black sedan that kept appearing. Was history repeating itself?

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