Page 72 of Trapped
No, I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that his practicality stripped the beauty from the gesture. But instead, a deep, weary sadness echoed inside me. He was offering permanence, yes, but it was tethered to necessity. Not love.
Santino offered me his arm. “Come with me.”
I took it, the sadness thick in my throat. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he said.
We walked in silence, our feet crunching gravel. We reached a small clearing where a dilapidated gazebo stood, its paint peeling and vines creeping up its sides. It looked out of place amidst the well-maintained vineyard.
“This place belonged to my grandparents,” Santino said, his tone unusually somber. “After they died, nobody was around to take care of the property. It fell into disrepair like so many of the farms scattered all over Italy. Until I started renovations, slowly making it like it used to be.”
“Do you want to live here someday?”
“I like the idea of growing old here with a family. Away from all the bullshit in Boston. But I’m probably not cut out for life out here.”
I studied him, trying to reconcile the ruthless man I knew with this version of him who dreamed of a simpler life. It was hard to imagine Santino living a quiet life in a vineyard.
“Why tell me all this?”
“Because I want you to see that there’s more to me than illegal fighting rings and collecting debts. A part of me craves something normal.”
“Is that even possible for you? You’ll have a target on your back for the rest of your life. So will your children.”
His expression darkened, and I knew he was remembering the fire that took his cousin’s life. Every time it crossed my mind, horror pitted my stomach. He took my hand, and we strolled out of the farm onto a gravel road.
We headed down the winding stone road into a small outdoor market. Hunched over old women dressed in all black filed into a small church. The doors opened, and I glimpsed a priest in white robes waving incense over the pews. A funeral. My skin prickled as Santino brought me to a cafe.
We settled at a small table outside, the smell of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee wafting through the air. Santino ordered for us in rapid Italian, and the waitress blushed. Irritation heated my chest as she fluttered away.
“Is this your way of showing me you’ll be a good father?”
“I think you know that already, principessa. I took care of you, didn’t I? Everybody who hurts you has to deal with me. Dimitri. Ivan. Anybody who looks at you the wrong way.”
How did he know about Ivan?
I froze.
“I helped you get clean for the first time in years. I held your hair when you vomited, washed you when you could barely stand, cooked you food.”
Everything he said made me feel worse.
“I don’t know why you want anything to do with me. Your dad was an alcoholic. Aren’t you afraid I’ll be just as much of a mess?”
Santino’s expression softened. “My father gave in to his demons. But you’re fighting them. That makes you strong.”
I pulled away. “That doesn’t change what I am.”
“We all have our issues. The question is whether we let them control us.”
I stared into my coffee, the swirling darkness reflecting my tumultuous thoughts. I allowed myself to imagine it—a real fresh start with Santino.
As we walked back to the villa, the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the vineyards. It was a beautiful, almost haunting sight—a reminder of the fleeting nature of peace.
When we reached the house, men in suits were gathered around a black car, their expressions tense. Santino’s demeanor shifted, the mask of the mafioso slipping back into place.
“Stay here.”
TWENTY-FIVE