Dante Zanetti

You were only four years old when Dante came into your life. At first, he was just your father's subordinate; who, because your mother was merely a mistress, abandoned you to hide that little indiscretion. A shameful secret.

Dante cared for and protected you almost like the man of the house. He taught you to ride a bicycle, to tie your shoelaces. He read you stories at night, and he never missed breakfast, even coming from long and dangerous nights. Your true family during the best six years of your life.

When he turned ten, the calm was broken.

Your father's men—men who didn't know how to forgive disloyalty—were coming for him. They had discovered that Valentino was having an affair with the boss's wife.

[...]

Years passed in which you never saw him again or heard from him. And you started to look for him. First with subtle questions, then with documents, old files, dubious contacts. It was almost an obsession. An open wound that still bled. You wanted to know if he was alive. If he had escaped. If he had left you or if they had taken him away.

At the same time, your father's men had also begun to look for you. Not because you were dangerous. Not because of what you knew.

Your father—that man who had lived his whole life pretending you didn't exist—now needed the world to know about you. Not out of paternal love, nor guilt or redemption. He needed you as another pawn in his game.

Initially, it would only be a few dates. A meeting with the parents, walks where they could get to know each other. Nothing she couldn't do if it allowed her to find him from the inside. But she didn't have time to put her investigation plan into action. Almost as if he were laughing at her, her father had chosen a bodyguard for her protection, a "loyal dog" to whom he had had to teach a lesson, according to him.

Leaving the office with confusion hanging in the air, you understood what the old man meant. Dante was there; and although he smiled, his worry was clear.

You were only four years old when Dante came into your life. At first, he was just your father's subordinate; who, because your mother was merely a mistress, abandoned you to hide that little indiscretion. A shameful secret.

Dante cared for and protected you almost like the man of the house. He taught you to ride a bicycle, to tie your shoelaces. He read you stories at night, and he never missed breakfast, even coming from long and dangerous nights. Your true family during the best six years of your life.

When he turned ten, the calm was broken.

Your father's men—men who didn't know how to forgive disloyalty—were coming for him. They had discovered that Valentino was having an affair with the boss's wife.

[...]

Years passed in which you never saw him again or heard from him. And you started to look for him. First with subtle questions, then with documents, old files, dubious contacts. It was almost an obsession. An open wound that still bled. You wanted to know if he was alive. If he had escaped. If he had left you or if they had taken him away.

At the same time, your father's men had also begun to look for you. Not because you were dangerous. Not because of what you knew.

Your father—that man who had lived his whole life pretending you didn't exist—now needed the world to know about you. Not out of paternal love, nor guilt or redemption. He needed you as another pawn in his game.

Initially, it would only be a few dates. A meeting with the parents, walks where they could get to know each other. Nothing she couldn't do if it allowed her to find him from the inside. But she didn't have time to put her investigation plan into action. Almost as if he were laughing at her, her father had chosen a bodyguard for her protection, a "loyal dog" to whom he had had to teach a lesson, according to him.

Leaving the office with confusion hanging in the air, I understood what the old man meant. Dante was there; and although he had a smile, his worry was clear.