Evading My Former Partner, Embracing His Patriarch

Caterina

“Let me make sure I’ve got this right,” Tatiana says, leaning over the center console, her elbow squeaking on the leather while she tries to steady a glass of champagne.

She flicks her blond hair out of her face, eyes glossy with all the toasts she insisted we attend. “You just graduated, and your boyfriend of five years didn’t show up to the ceremony… and didn’t spend the night with you after?”

I press my teeth together, a smile that isn’t a smile. Her bluntness always lands like a slap—accurate, stinging, impossible to ignore. Five parties later, I feel like I clapped for everyone else’s shining life while mine hovered at the edge, dim and not entirely mine.

“He had to work early,” I say, repeating the line Luciano feeds me when he wants to be unassailable. “He’s trying to be responsible.”

“An adult asks for the day off for something important,” she says, shrugging. “He knew your date for months. I don’t buy it, Caterina.”

There’s no answer that will satisfy her or soothe the ache I’ve already rehearsed in private. I don’t know why I stay. Fear of the empty space if I let go? Habit dressed up as loyalty? Hope that’s thin as thread?

“Hey,” I say, pivoting because I can’t stand the mirror she’s holding up. “His absence means I get you all night. And… your boyfriend isn’t joining us either.”

Her smile falters. “Yeah. We’re both unlucky.” A beat. “He had other things to do.”

She doesn’t elaborate. Maybe he didn’t either.

Roger turned the wheel, guiding us onto the long road to the Rossetti estate. My stomach tightens the way it always does when we approach this place—like the air changes density. The stone wall rises out of the dark; a guard lifts the gate with a nod. On the other side, the world is manicured and watchful. There’s so much land that even the bodyguards live in little houses like chess pawns along the perimeter.

It’s my favorite stage for a fantasy I never speak aloud.

Gianni Rossetti. Dangerous in the way that makes men careful and women straighten without meaning to. My father—Detective, capital D—calls him a headache with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He says Rossetti Explosives is the clean suit draped over a mess of mob ties. He warns me. He always warns me. And still, the thought of Gianni’s voice, rough and low, has lived under my skin since I was a teenager and realized power wasn’t just a word, it was a temperature.

Tatiana drains her glass and blinks at me. “What were we talking about?” She taps her chin. “Right. Luke the jerk.”

“He’s not a jerk,” I say, out of reflex.

Maybe if I repeat it enough, it’ll be true. Maybe words can sand down edges.

“He is,” she insists. “It’s your graduation day, your once-in-a-lifetime. He knew your dad invited him to dinner. He couldn’t make one night happen?”

“He had to cover a shift,” I say, softer. “The gym is a big investment. If he wants to take it over, he has to be serious.”

“Serious people still show up for the person they love.” She burps, mortified, then laughs. “Sorry. I just hate watching you get hurt.”

“I’m not hurt,” I lie, because the hurt is strange—dull where it should be sharp. What does it mean when a person you’ve built a future with can’t pierce you? What does that say about the future?

The driver parks in front of the main entrance like we’re arriving at a quiet hotel. He’s already out, opening the door with a little bow that Tatiana always pretends to hate. I grab my overnight bag and step aside so she can climb out without flashing the world. She sways.

We slip into the cool quiet of the house. Peace lives here—polished floors, expensive restraint, the hum of expensive machines behind the walls. My father’s house is small and warm and crowded with questions. This one holds its breath.

“Should’ve eaten,” Tatiana mutters, leaning heavier.

“You had half a sandwich.” I park her on a kitchen stool, fish out a granola bar and water, and press them into her hands. “Help yourself before your stomach files a complaint.”

Then we climb the hall, our footsteps echoing. “Is your dad home?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m asking about the weather and also the storm.

“He’s working,” she whispers. “Always.”

He said after lunch he’d be late. He’s always late. Not the careless kind—late like he belongs to a thousand hungers and this house is only one of them.

Rossetti Explosives looks legal on paper. The paper lies in neat stacks while men with guns live on the property. My father’s mouth flattens every time he says the name. He wants handcuffs. He gets press releases.

In the bathroom, I sit Tatiana on the closed toilet lid and slide a cotton pad over her lash line. She sighs, eyes half-closed. “I don’t deserve you, C.”

“Don’t start.” I smile and keep my hand gentle. “We take turns. That’s how friendship works.”

“No sickness tonight,” she promises, trying for a joke. It lands fragile and sweet.

I get her into pajamas, then into bed. By the time I’m finished washing my face and brushing out my hair, the room is silvery with moonlight. I slide into my side of the bed. The mattress dips; Tatiana turns toward me.

“It’s just me,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says, a small, sleepy smile. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For giving you a hard time about Luciano. You’re right. Christopher isn’t a prize either.” Her voice thins. “Sometimes I don’t even think he likes me.”

It startles me. Tatiana’s armor is flashy, but it’s armor all the same.

“I’m sure he does,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s not to like?”

“You know what I mean. He’s hot and cold. One minute I’m the only person in the room. The next I’m… noise.” She stares past me. “It’s confusing.”

“How long has it been like that?” I ask, because if he’s making her small, I want a list and a plan.

“Not long.” A beat. “I’m worried there’s someone else.”

“Someone else?” I blink. “He’d be an idiot. If he is, better to know.”