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“I have a lot to tell you today,” I murmur against her knuckles. “More than usual.”

I dig Mom’s brush out of my bag—the wide-toothed one she always used to carry in her own bag and take with her everywhere. The handle is worn smooth from years of her grip.

Her hair spreads across the pillow in dark waves shot through with gray. The first stroke catches on a tangle near the crown. I work through it slowly, supporting the strand with my palm the way she taught me when I was little and whining about knots.

The brush moves through her hair with a soft whisper, and something in my chest unclenches by degrees as I settle into our usual ritual. In many ways, that’s all these visits are.

Rituals that keep me going. Like brushing her hair while I talk to her. That’s what she used to do with me when I was younger. Once when I’d taken or done something I wasn’t supposed to, and wouldn’t admit it, she sat me down at night and brushed my hair while telling me why it was wrong.

Now, I brush her hair when I share stories about my life. I brushed it when I told her Dad was selling me, when I told her I was going to marry Paolo, and again when I told her I ended up marrying Domenico.

“Something happened,” I murmur, hating how small my voice sounds. “Three days ago. With Domenico.”

The brush moves through another section. Her hair is fine but thick, the way mine is, and it falls back against the pillow in smooth strands when I’m done with it.

“Do you remember I told you about the red-headed man who scared me? Well, turns out his name is Greg, and he works for Domenico.”

I continue to brush my mom’s hair as I tell her what Domenico did three days ago. When I talk to Mom like this, I never spare any details. Why would I? Apart from occasionally squeezing my fingers, or, even rarer, opening her eyes and seeming to look straight at me, there are almost no signs she knows what’s happening around her.

So I don’t feel judged, which means I never hold back. “He told me he would’ve killed him if I hadn’t accepted Greg’s apology. Just like that. No hesitation. Who even does something like that, Mom? Who looks at another person and decides whether they live or die based on whether I forgive them?”

The question hangs in the air until I have the strength to continue my tale. The next part is somehow harder. Admitting I’ve been avoiding my husband feels like a betrayal to, well, my mom.

She always did her best to teach me how to be a good wife, and avoiding one’s husband wasn’t part of her teachings. Then again, she never taught me what to do when your husband is in the Mafia. When he’s the Don and isn’t fazed by murder.

I hold on to those thoughts as I rush through my behavior. Even though I’m pretty sure Mom would understand, it’s the 0.0000001% chance she’d be disappointed that’s making my throat and eyes burn.

The brush catches on another knot. I work it free gently.

“You already know he scares me. I told you that after the wedding, and nothing’s changed. If anything, it’s worse now because I’ve seen what he can do.”

Pausing, I swallow thickly and grab a water bottle from my bag. It’s lukewarm by now, but it still does the trick.

“But here’s what’s weird, Mom. Domenico held me after the whole thing was over. He pulled me against his chest and apologized to me. Domenico DeLuca apologized for letting me be frightened in my own home.”

I set the brush down again because my hands are starting to shake. I wrap my fingers around Mom’s wrist, feeling the thin, steady pulse beneath the skin.

“Greg did scare me. He really did. And Domenico didn’t dismiss it. He didn’t tell me to get over it or that I was being dramatic. He changed the penthouse access the next day. God, he even started holding more meetings downtown. He meant it when he said it was my home too.”

The frustration builds in my chest, hot and tight. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum as if I can physically push it down.

“And that’s the part I hate, Mom. The part I really, really hate.” I close my eyes. “I felt protected. More than protected. I felt… treasured. Like someone frightening me was unacceptable. Like I mattered enough that my fear was worth violence.”

I open my eyes and look at her face.

“You already know that Dad never made me feel that way. When I was scared, it was my problem, and probably my fault.” I brush a strand of hair from her forehead with my fingertips. “Domenico terrifies me, and yet somehow everything else feels less frightening when he’s around. How does that work? How can the same man make me feel scared and safe at the same time?”

As always, I wait. For a twitch of her finger, a flutter of her eyelids, any sign that she heard me and is fighting her way back to the surface. But there’s still nothing.

I wordlessly finish brushing the last of her hair, making sure every strand is knot and tangle-free. Then I smooth the locks back into place. She looks better now. More like herself when her hair isn’t in disarray.

The woman in the bed could be sleeping, if you didn’t know to look for the machines, the IV, the stillness that goes deeper than sleep.

I set the brush on the side table and lean back in the chair. My shoulders ache. My eyes feel dry. The coffee is long gone, and the caffeine has left a hollow, jittery feeling in its wake.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to feel about him. I don’t know if I should want him to stop being the way he is, because if he stopped, would I still feel the way I felt when he held me after Greg? Would anyone ever make me feel that important again?”

The room offers no answers, which is probably for the best. I don’t know how to feel about Domenico yet. He scares me, but he also makes me feel safe. Somehow, both are true, and pretending one cancels out the other won’t make either disappear.