At that, she bustles off to set the dining table, leaving me with a strange, floating sense of being let into a secret I don’t understand.
I walk back into the living room, my phone buzzing in my hand, and look out the window. The city below looks like a mosaic, with small lives stacked in glass boxes and stories unfolding behind every lit window. Up here, even the traffic seems slow and careful. I count the minutes until Alessio comes back and wonder if I belong here or if I’m still just a guest.
The kitchen smells like a Sunday, full of bread, basil, and tomato—the familiar routines of people who love to cook. I think of my mom and grandmother. They would hate how much I enjoy this, how quickly I fell for someone like Alessio Morrone. They would hate that he makes me feel safe.
“Lucia.” His voice behind me, quiet as a knife. I turn. He’s on the phone, tie loosened, eyes cool and unreadable. He holds up a finger—wait.
I wait.
He finishes the call, then closes the distance between us in three strides. “Is everything okay?”
I could lie, but I don’t: “My father found out I left, and now he’s losing his mind. He says I’m destroying the family.”
Alessio smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “He can call me if he has something to say. Or he can mind his business. You’re home now.”
I tuck my face into his chest and breathe in peppermint and soap. “I don’t want you to fight my battles, Alessio.”
He tilts my chin up, thumb brushing the dimple in my chin. “That’s the thing about being family, Lucia. Your battles are mine.”
The warmth in me is so strong I nearly start to cry, but I hold it together. Instead, I ask, “Do I really get to redecorate the whole top floor?”
He grins, wolfish. “If you want. But don’t touch my bar, or my gun safe.”
I press my cheek to his chest, secretly memorizing the rhythm of his heartbeat. “Maybe I’ll just add a reading nook or two.”
“Good,” he says, and kisses my forehead.
Lunch is full of contrasts: the food is comforting, but the mood at the table is tense. Chiara brings out the dishes and quickly returns to the kitchen, leaving us alone. I can tell Alessio is distracted, his eyes moving between the window and his phone.
Finally, I say, “You can go. I’ll be fine.”
He gives me a look, half affection, half warning. “You’re not a prisoner, Lucia. But if you leave this apartment, you call me first. Yeah?”
I nod. “Promise.”
He doesn’t kiss me goodbye, just brushes my arm as he leaves. I watch the door close and think about every man I’ve loved before. None of them ever left the front door unlocked for me.
Chiara returns, sits across from me, and starts to shell peas for dinner without looking up. “He’s got a good heart, that one,” she says. “But he’s been at war with himself since before you were born.”
“Why?” I blurt, not meaning to.
She smiles. “That is not my story to tell. You want more sauce?”
I nod, and she piles it on my plate.
I check my phone again: nine missed calls, three voicemails, and two texts. I start to type a message to Dad: I’m fine. Please stop calling me. I’m happy here.
I don’t send it.
Instead, I open the first voicemail and hold the phone to my ear—Dad’s voice, brittle and tight: “Lucinda. I hope you know what you’re doing. I hope you’re safe. Call me, please. I love you.”
I listen to it twice, then delete it. My stomach aches. The smell of basil fills the air, and I wonder if growing up means having to choose which family you let down.
The afternoon unspools quietly. Chiara teaches me how to make dough from nothing but semolina and eggs, shows me how to fold it so thin you can see your hand through it. She doesn’t ask about Alessio or my father. She lets me lose myself in the muscle memory of kneading, in the way flour cakes my handsand gets under my nails. For a while, I’m just a girl in a kitchen, sleeves rolled up, learning how to make something from scratch.
It’s a kind of peace I never knew I wanted.
Voices drift down the hall—two men, low and quick, words shuttling between English and Italian. I freeze, dough stuck to my hands, and listen hard.