Page 162 of Dangerous King
The ghost just killed himself in front of me.
To protectwhat?
Orwhom?
A few days later…
We buried my sister on a gray Thursday. Or what was left of her. The casket was closed, the flowers white, and the rain polite enough to hold off until we were halfway through the service. I didn't cry until they lowered her into the ground, not because I was holding it together, but because I still couldn't believe she was actually gone.
Sabine.
My beautiful, broken sister.
The truth is, I never really knew Sabine. Not the way sisters are supposed to. She was a year younger than me and I adored her, but I grew up in New York, chasing shadows and secrets, whileshe grew up in a house I can barely remember, with a mother I only saw on FaceTime.
For most of my life, Sabine was just a name—a possibility. But when we finally stood in the same room, I let myself hope. I thought maybe we could be something. Something more than just blood and obligation, actual sisters. Maybe even friends.
And for a moment, I believed we could.
But the bomb took that from us before we even had a chance to find out. Now all I have are questions. Who wanted Kingsley dead badly enough that it led to the bomb in our cake?
We still don't have answers for most of our questions. First and foremost, who is behind Omertà Infernale? Once we know that, I'm sure we'll know a lot more. Like if they were the ones behind Marcello's shooting, too.
Marcello is still in the hospital, clinging to life by sheer force of will and maybe a few well-timed miracles. Every time the doctors shake their heads, he defies them. Every time we think he won't make it through the night, he does.
Because, of course, he does. He's Marcello.
It turns out a few bullets aren't enough to kill the man who is trying to find his own path in life. We haven't visited him. Enrico says it's not safe, and he thinks Marcello wouldn't want us there until he's conscious and upright, anyway. I hope he makes it. From the way Enrico talks about him, he's a man I would like to get to know better. There aren't many people outside the family that Enrico seems to like and respect, so those he does, like Marcello, or Toni and his mysterious hostage, I would like to know, too.
Last night, when it was just the two of us curled up on the couch, Enrico pulled me in close and kissed the top of my head. "When this is over," he murmured, "when we've buried whoever did this—I'm taking you away."
"Away where?" I asked sleepily. The painkillers have that effect on me, and I can't wait to be off them.
"I don't care, somewhere with no phones. No guns. No enemies." He tightened his hold. "We'll have a real honeymoon. Just us."
God knows I need it. And so does he.
Because even though we're technically married, it doesn't feel like we've started anything yet. Like we hit pause on what was supposed to be the beginning, and now we're just living in the space between devastation and justice.
My parents finally moved into a place of their own. Small and quiet, and just a few miles down the road. It's strange seeing them as people instead of forces that shaped me. My brothers are working at the casino now, legitimate work, as far as I can tell. Enrico has kept the darker side of operations well away from them. What they do next… that's their choice.
I don't have the energy to carry everyone anymore.
What Iamdoing, slowly and a bit awkwardly, is working on repairing things with my father. We're not close. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.
But we talk more. Conversations where I try hard not to voice my bitterness, which I have started to admit to myself. I've come to realize that the wound between us isn't just about what happened. It's about whatdidn'thappen.
Because when I was a little girl, being held as a hostage by the Giordanos, I dreamed of him. My father. The hero. The rescuer. The man who would come storming through the door and say, "You don't belong here, baby. Come home."
But he never came.
He stayed in Sicily while I grew up in cold, echoing rooms in New York. It took me years to learn to stop dreaming. And that's what I have to forgive, not just him, but the version of myself who waited too long for someone who wasn't coming. Maybe I'll never get the father I dreamed of. Not in him anyway. But I do have the best father-in-law. And that's something too.
Eliza once told me that Enrico has no patience for weakness but infinite patience for pain. That he can be brutal to his enemies and endlessly gentle to the people he loves. And I believe her now. Because Enrico never asked me to prove anything. Never looked at me like I was broken or inconvenient.
He looks at me like Ibelong. From the moment we met, he looked at me as if I were already his.
The door clicks softly behind me, and I feel it before I hear it, Enrico's presence, steady and familiar, grounding me.
