“How is my Santo?” she asked, patting his jaw like he was still a boy. “He eats enough? That man forgets to sit downsometimes. You tell him Guiletta sends her love and that new sweater I knitted. The black one. He better wear it.”
Marco’s ears actually went a little pink. “He’s fine, Signora. I’ll tell him.”
I stood there holding my box of free pastries, watching the whole scene unfold like I’d wandered into some alternate universe. Everywhere we’d gone today, from the lawyer’s office, warehouse, discreet drop-off, tailor and now the café, people had greeted Marco with respect.
But Santino? They loved him. Not the fearful, bowed-head kind of respect I’d expected from a mafia don. This was warm. Familiar. Family.
Santo.
The name kept echoing in my head as we finally stepped back out into the rain. Marco held an umbrella over both of us without being asked, muttering about how I was going to make him late for everything.
I bumped his shoulder lightly. “They all call him Santo.”
“Yeah,” Marco said after a beat. He didn’t elaborate.
“It’s not what I expected,” I admitted, watching raindrops race down the windshield as we climbed back into the SUV. “I thought it would be fear. Guns. People crossing the street when they see you coming. But it’s… this.”
Marco started the engine, the wipers sweeping steadily. For once, he didn’t look irritated. Just tired in a different way.
“Santino grew up here,” he said quietly. “Before everything. A lot of these people knew his mother. Knew him when he was just a kid trying to keep his family together. They remember the boy. Even after he became… what he is.”
I turned the warm pastry box in my lap, the scent of sugar and vanilla filling the car. My chest felt strangely tight.
“He’s not just a monster to them,” I murmured.
Marco glanced over at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “He’s never been just one thing, Aurora. Not to any of us.”
The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the SUV as we pulled away from the bakery. I turned the warm pastry box over in my hands, the scent of vanilla and fried dough filling the quiet space between us. Marco drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him all day.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way Signore Brunetti had called him Santo. The little boy’s hopeful face. The grandmother’s affectionate scolding.
“Was he always like this?” I asked softly, before I could overthink it.
Marco didn’t pretend not to know who I meant. He let out a long, tired sigh, the sound of a man who’d answered this question more times than he cared to count.
“Not exactly,” he said after a beat. “He was always intense. Always protective. But back then… it was different.”
I waited, watching the city lights blur through the rain-streaked window.
Marco’s mouth twitched, like the memories were pulling a reluctant smile out of him.
“There was this one time… Him and Angelo, they were maybe fifteen. They switched places for an entire week to mess with everyone. Same face, same build, but Angelo was the chaos gremlin and Santino was the one who actually thought things through. Angelo convinced half the neighborhood that Santo had developed a sense of humor. Santino nearly lost his mind trying to undo the damage after.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Did anyone notice?”
“Their nonna knew right away. Grabbed Angelo by the ear in the middle of dinner and said, ‘I changed your diapers, boy.Don’t insult me.’ Santino stood there trying not to laugh while Angelo got lectured for both of them.”
The image hit me so vividly I could almost see it. Two dark-haired boys with matching smirks, one of them always dragging the other into trouble. I pictured a younger Santino, still lethal but lighter somehow.
“Another time,” Marco continued, warming to it despite himself, “Angelo bet Santino he couldn’t jump a motorcycle over this fountain in the old piazza. Middle of the night. No helmets. Santino, being Santino, took the bet. Landed it perfectly… and then the bike kept going straight into the water. Angelo was laughing so hard he fell off the railing. Santino came up dripping wet, spitting mad, and tackled him right there in the fountain. Cops showed up. They ran. Soaked. Covered in fountain scum. Still arguing about whose fault it was the whole way home.”
I was giggling now, full and bright, the kind of laugh that made my ribs ache. “They sound terrible.”
“They were,” Marco said, and for the first time all day, he actually laughed too. A low, genuine sound that surprised us both. He caught it quickly, clearing his throat, but it was too late.
I pointed at him. “You smiled.”
“Don’t start.”