Page 50 of Savage Devotion

"There you are,tesoro," he says to Maria before nodding respectfully to me. "Signora, the young master appears... agitated this morning. Perhaps you might..." He trails off, clearly uncomfortable suggesting I manage Dante's mood.

"He's working too much," Maria declares, sliding the focaccia into the ancient stone oven. "Always on that phone. Even as a boy, he never knew how to rest properly."

I find myself nodding in agreement. "I'll check on him."

As I turn to leave, Maria catches my wrist with a flour-covered hand. "Wait. Let me show you something first. Something that might help you understand him better."

I follow her through the villa's winding corridors to a room I haven't yet explored. Inside, bookshelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, each filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk sits in one corner, while comfortable reading chairs sit before a fireplace.

"This was Elena's library," Maria explains, crossing to a cabinet beneath one of the shelves. "Dante spent hours here as a child. Reading poetry aloud to his mother while she painted."

She withdraws a worn sketchbook, handling it with care before offering it to me. "Perhaps this will help you see him as she did."

I accept it cautiously, aware I'm being granted access to something intimate and private. The cover is soft leather, worn at the edges from handling. When I open it, I find myself looking at a boy's face rendered in charcoal.

Even without the coldness that now defines him, Dante is immediately recognizable—perhaps ten or eleven years old, his expression serious but vulnerable in a way I've never witnessed. Page after page reveals him in various states. Reading beneath a tree, helping Romano with garden tools, asleep on a window seat with an open book on his chest.

"He doesn't know I kept these," Maria admits. "After Elena died, in exchange for us to be allowed to live here freely, Vito ordered everything of hers destroyed. But Romano and I saved what we could. We knew someday… Dante might want these memories."

I study a particularly striking portrait. It's a sketch of teenage Dante, his expression already hardening into the man he would become. Yet Elena had captured something in his eyes, a depth of feeling he now keeps ruthlessly contained.

"Thank you for showing me this," I say quietly, returning the sketchbook to her.

"He works so hard to become the monster everyone believes him to be," Maria says, her voice tinged with sorrow. "Perhaps you can remind him that monsters are made, not born."

***

The next few days blur together in unexpected domestic rhythm.

Mornings, I explore the villa and its grounds, always aware of the invisible boundaries of my freedom. Afternoons, Maria teaches me traditional Italian cooking, her hands guiding mine through generations of culinary wisdom.

And Dante... Dante works. Endlessly.

His days are filled with phone calls in multiple languages, encrypted messages that break the small amount of attention he gives me before he has to attend video conferences with lieutenants scattered across Europe.

He's building his empire from this remote hillside, piece by piece.

And my job?

To keep him happy.

By the fifth evening, I surprise him by preparing dinner alongside Maria. I make fresh pasta with a sauce that simmers all afternoon, serving it with crusty bread still warm from the oven and a local wine Maria assures me is Dante's favorite.

He enters the dining room looking exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes. He stops short when he sees the table, beautifully set on the terrace with candles and flowers from the garden.

"What's this?" he asks.

"Dinner," I reply simply.

He takes his seat as Maria delivers the first course, her knowing smile directed at me before she discreetly withdraws.

"Try the wine," I suggest, settling across from him. "Maria says it's your favorite."

He raises the glass, inhaling its rich bouquet before tasting.

"Ah… she remembers," he murmurs, something almost like nostalgia softening his features. "I haven't had this since..."

"Since you were last here with your mother," I finish softly.

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