Chapter 4

After the chandelier incident, Enrico warned Silvia that the tendon damage meant she couldn't let the wound get wet for at least half a month. Weapons training was off-limits as well.

The former Don had passed early. Dante now held the reins of the family, though several long-standing consigliere and branch elders remained.

Days later, the family gathered once again at Valenti Estate for the annual dinner.

Dante spent the whole dinner angled to the left, leaning in now and then to ask Lucia if everything tasted right, and left Silvia to herself.

"Lucia, try the spiny lobster that was flown in."

Lucia was dressed in a light pink off-the-shoulder dress, the Heart of the Sea still around her neck. She knitted her brows and shifted her gaze to the crawfish boil, its red shells glossy under the lights.

Her voice came out soft. "Dante, I'm in the mood for something spicy. But I've been drawing nonstop for the exhibition. My wrist's aching, and I can't peel the shells."

The senior members at the table watched nothing and said nothing. No one there was unaware of where Dante's favor now lay.

Dante nodded when he heard her. "An artist's hands exist to create beauty. They shouldn't be wasted on rough work. It risks damaging their sensitivity. That was my oversight."

When he raised his eyes again, his expression had settled into the familiar distance of the Don. "Silvia, peel the crawfish for Lucia."

Silvia raised her hands. Bandages wrapped them tightly, darkened by seeping medication. "My stitches haven't been removed. I can't do it."

"It's only crawfish. How much force could it possibly take?" Dante asked, displeased.

Being contradicted by a subordinate in front of the senior members struck at his authority.

"You used to set your own bones and keep fighting. Now you're fragile? Don't forget. The family doesn't keep deadweight."

"I…"

"That's an order."

Silvia recognized the signs of his anger at once, his brow tightening and the corners of his mouth dipping.

Rosetta's last words surfaced again.

Silvia finally put the spoon down and said, "Si."

The sharp edge of the crawfish shell pierced the bandage. Spice soaked into split skin, and pain washed over her until her vision dimmed.

Eventually, one whole crawfish was peeled and placed before Lucia. The meat was white and tender, streaked with the faintest red.

It was Silvia's blood.

Lucia yelped, clapped a hand over her mouth, and retched.

Dante slammed his cutlery down. "Silvia! Was this intentional?"

He pointed at the plate of crawfish, his stare dark and vicious.

"I told you to peel crawfish, and this is the scene you put on. Blood all over your hands. Who are you trying to show this to? Are you trying to tell everyone here I've been mistreating you?"

He was convinced she'd done it deliberately. A bloody display meant to disgust Lucia, ruin the dinner, and stage a silent protest against him.

Lucia hurried to soothe him. "Dante, don't be angry. Silvia might've just wanted your sympathy. I'll just skip it."

"You're not skipping it. I'll peel it for you myself."

Silvia watched Dante, the man she had once stood beside under gunfire, and his face suddenly felt terrifyingly unfamiliar.

She remembered taking a bullet for him and ending up with an infected wound, bedridden for a month. Back then, he never left her side.

The Don, who had been raised in comfort, learned to do a caretaker's job. His eyes were bloodshot from sleepless nights, his hand locked around hers as if letting go would let death take her.

In those days, he cried every time he bent to kiss her wound.

Now, to please Lucia, Dante forced Silvia into a maid's role and recoiled from her blood as if it were filth.

"Sorry for the interruption."

Silvia turned and walked straight out of the dining room. She didn't look back.

Dante watched the thin line of blood on the floor and felt an unexpected weight press against his chest. At some point, she'd grown into a weapon that rarely spoke.

Protecting him had become her entire design. She'd erased every trace of emotion, and the rigid discipline that replaced it was enough to choke the air out of him.

The woman who slept beside him felt like a weapon that couldn't feel pain, cold and unyielding as iron. Even now, she showed no temper. She even stood up and apologized, polite to the end.

Dante followed the bloodstains into the hall, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Silvia, but she was already gone. The emptiness unsettled him for no reason.