Then one Thursday evening, everything changed.
Sophia had a cardiology appointment at Northwestern. Dante insisted on coming, though he spent most of the appointment standing in the corner like a thundercloud in a tailored coat.
The doctor spoke too quickly.
Too loudly.
At Sophia, not to her.
“She needs to reduce stress,” he told Dante.
Sophia looked at you, irritated.
You interpreted exactly.
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she signed back.
“Tell him I am deaf, not furniture.”
You inhaled.
Dante looked at you.
“Translate.”
You did.
The doctor flushed.
Dante smiled.
It was not friendly.
“My mother asked you a question, Doctor.”
After that, the doctor spoke directly to Sophia.
Slowly.
Respectfully.
You watched Dante watching his mother.
The ruthless man in the rumors was there, yes.
But so was something else.
A son furious at every person who treated his mother like an inconvenience.
Outside the clinic, Sophia grew tired. Dante helped her into the car with such careful gentleness that your chest tightened.
He caught you looking.
“What?”
“You’re different with her.”
His expression closed.
“She is my mother.”
“That doesn’t make everyone gentle.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
Pain, maybe.
Then it vanished.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
Later, Sophia napped in the car while the driver navigated traffic. You sat across from Dante, the city blurring beyond tinted windows.
He looked at your hands.
“Teach me.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“Sign. Properly.”
“You know some.”
“I know enough to disappoint my mother.”
You smiled.
“At least you’re self-aware.”
His mouth twitched.
“Do not enjoy this too much.”
“I will enjoy it the appropriate amount.”
You began with basics.
Not alphabet.
He knew that.
You taught him smoother sentence structure, facial grammar, how expression carried meaning. You corrected the stiffness in his hands. You made him repeat mother, appointment, pain, rest, and I am listening until he stopped looking like he was negotiating with his own fingers.
At one point, he signed, “I want understand you.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
“Me?”
He froze.
Then corrected.
“I want understand her.”
You let him have the lie.
For now.
The closer you came to Sophia, the closer you came to danger.
One night, after a charity dinner where you interpreted for her, you stepped outside the venue and found two men waiting near the alley.
Not Vitelli men.
You knew that instantly.
Dante’s bodyguards carried stillness like trained weapons. These men carried impatience.
One smiled.
“Elena Russo?”
Your pulse jumped.
“Yes?”
“Our employer wants to talk.”
You stepped back.
“I don’t know your employer.”
“You know Dante Vitelli.”
The second man moved behind you.
Your mouth went dry.
