Page 477 of Rosetti Family New York
He stands slowly, moving through the apartment like he's seeing it for the first time. His fingers brush the soft leaves of the philodendron, trail along the bright throw pillows. When hepicks up the jar of coffee beans and inhales, something almost like a smile crosses his face.
"You made it alive," he says quietly.
Pride swells in my chest. "I arranged the succulents by light requirements," I tell him, bouncing slightly on my toes with excitement over my domestic victories. "And that coffee roaster said these beans pair perfectly with morning sunrise."
His careful observation of my nesting behavior makes me suddenly aware of the age gap between us. Where I see small triumphs, he sees deeper patterns. Where I feel pride in simple achievements, he recognizes something more profound.
"Christ, you actually stayed." His voice cracks slightly, like he expected to come home to empty rooms. "You bought coffee. Real coffee."
The raw emotion in his voice catches me off guard. This controlled man, undone by yellow pillows and coffee beans.
"I'm making a home," I tell him, the words feeling more mature than anything I've ever said. "There's a difference between claiming territory and building something together."
His eyes darken with something that makes my pulse race. "Together?"
"If you want that." Suddenly I'm nervous again, young and uncertain despite everything. "I mean, I know I'm young, and Idon't really know what I'm doing with the domesticity thing, but—"
He crosses to me in three quick steps, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that carries gratitude and possession and something deeper I'm afraid to name. When we break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against mine.
"I want that," he says simply.
Van returns from his evening shift at the hospital to find me standing frozen at the kitchen table, photos spread across its surface like a gruesome deck of cards. Brutal images of Torrino violence—bodies arranged in parking garages, family members who asked too many questions, the specific cruelties they use to send messages.
My optimism crashes against the reality of mafia warfare spread in glossy 8x10 prints. These aren't distant threats anymore. This is what wants to hurt Van because of me, because of my name, because of the debt he owes my family.
"Where did these come from?" he asks. Van's jaw tightens as he takes in the photos scattered across our table—because it's ours now, isn't it?
"Marco had them delivered." My voice stays steady even as my hands shake. "He wants us to understand what we're dealing with."
The images are designed to terrify, to make me run back to the safety of family protection. Photos of torture, of slow deaths, of what the Torrinos do to people who stand in their way. I pick up one photo—a woman about my age, bound and tortured for her father's mistakes. She has dark hair like mine.
"They're arranged like a macabre gallery opening," I hear myself say, that inappropriate cheerfulness creeping into my voice when I'm terrified. "Very dark Renaissance. The Torrinos should really consider better lighting if they want the full dramatic effect—" My voice cracks, and fear crashes through me. Not just for myself, but for Van. For what they'll do to him because of me.
My breathing gets shallow and quick. The apartment suddenly feels too small, too exposed. What if they're watching right now? What if they're coming for us tonight?
"I can't—" The words catch in my throat. "Van, what if they hurt you? What if I got you killed just by being here?"
These aren't distant threats anymore. This is what wants to hurt the man I'm falling in love with because of my name, because of choices I made without understanding the consequences.
Van's there instantly, his hands framing my face, steel-gray eyes locked on mine with absolute focus.
"Look at me," he commands, voice dropping into that dominant register that makes my pulse skip. "Breathe with me."
But I can't. The photos keep flashing in my mind—that woman's terrified eyes, her bound hands, what they did to her before she died. "She looks like me," I whisper. "She could be me, and then you'd be—"
"Carmela." His voice cuts through my spiraling panic. "You're safe. I'm safe. We're going to handle this."
"How?" My voice cracks with twenty-four years of sheltered innocence finally meeting the reality of what my family name means. "I don't know how to fight people like this. I don't know how to protect you from—"
His mouth captures mine, hard and possessive and grounding. When we break apart, I'm breathing in sync with him again.
"Do you trust me?" he asks, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones.
"Yes." The answer comes without hesitation.
"Then let me take care of this. Let me take care of you." His eyes search mine, and I see something deeper than dominance there. Protection, possession, and something that looks almost like love. "Can you do that for me?"
The request settles something wild and panicked in my chest. This is what we do—he leads, I follow, and together we're stronger than either of us alone.
