Page 520 of Rosetti Family New York
Her expression shifts suddenly, giving way to storm clouds. "We need to talk about that note."
My chest tightens. I knew this was coming.
"You sent me away." Her voice shakes. "A note, Van. After everything we've been through, you sent me to New York with a goddamn note."
"Carmela—"
"No." She pulls back, creating distance between us. "Do you have any idea what that felt like? Racing to the airport thinking you didn't want me anymore? That you were throwing me away like everyone else who claimed to love me?"
"I was trying to protect you."
"From the Torrinos?" Her green eyes blaze with disbelief. "Don't lie to me. Not now."
The truth sits heavy in my throat.
"From me. I was protecting you from me."
Her breath catches. "What?"
"The nightmares, the PTSD, checking exits constantly. You deserve someone whole, someone who doesn't wake up screaming, someone who—"
"Someone who doesn't need me?" Her voice cracks. "Because that's what you're really saying. You decided I was too weak to handle your trauma. Too fragile to love you through the dark parts."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what you did." Tears shine in her eyes but don't fall. "You looked at us, at what we were building, and decided you were too damaged to deserve it. So you made the choice for both of us."
Every word lands with precision that cuts deeper than Lucia's torture ever could.
"I'm not some doll who only exists in the light, Van. I'm a Rosetti. I was raised on blood and loyalty and loving people through their darkest moments. But more importantly, I'm yours. That means all of you—the nightmares, the trauma, the pieces you think make you unworthy."
"I couldn't burden you with—"
"With the truth? With the chance to choose?" She moves closer, her hand finding my scarred wrist. "You think you're damaged? I just killed someone for you. I led a rescue mission. I've been sleeping in hospital chairs for three days. Does that sound like someone who can't handle your darkness?"
The silence stretches between us, heavy with truth.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I had no right to decide you couldn't handle it."
"Promise me." Fierce. Certain. "Promise you'll never send me away again. Not because you think you're too damaged, not because you think I deserve better. We decide together what we can handle."
"I promise." I catch her hand, pressing it against my chest where my heart beats steady despite everything. "We face everything together from now on."
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods. The anger fades, replaced by something softer but no less intense.
"Good. Because I want us to go home. Back to New York."
The word 'home' hits unexpectedly. Not Chicago, where I've built my medical career. New York, where her family is. But she includes me in that belonging.
"You want to return to New York?"
"I want to go where we can build a future together. Where your medical practice can flourish and where I can contribute to the family alliance." Her voice carries new authority. "Dom's been making arrangements. Hospital privileges, medical licenses, everything you'll need."
"Our world," she says naturally, no longer fighting her identity. "We go back as a united front. Partners in everything."
The moment is here. My surgical training taught me that hesitation kills—in the operating room and in life. When you know what needs to be done, you do it steady and absolute.
I pull the collar from my jacket pocket, the leather catching the morning light. Carmela's eyes widen as she recognizes what I'm holding.
