Most of them haven’t even met her. Bianca hasn’t met her. All they know is that she’s mine. That Ilove her.
Because of that, Elsa’s family now too. And Contis take care of our own, no matter what. We don’t take half-measures with our own. We don’t offer support with just words
We show up with hands full, and we make sure you eat, and we make sure you sleep, and we make sure nobody touches what’s ours.
Elsa doesn’t understand that yet, but she will. She’ll understand.
I set out plates, utensils, clean glasses. I find the good napkins—cloth, not paper—because I want her to feel that this isn’t temporary.
My mouth twists at the thought, because the future is the one thing I can’t lock down with cameras and codes and men on corners.
I picture her here—really here. Not just surviving a crisis in my apartment, but living, sharing. Hair damp after a shower. Legs tangled with mine while we watch a movie on the couch. Her laugh in this kitchen while I show her how to cook another dish.
Joy cuts through me so hard it’s almost painful.
I would do anything for her.
Anything.
And that includes New York.
The idea is a sword with two edges. One side is simple: being where she is. Building a life that doesn’t require her to choose between her career and me.
The other side is the ache that comes with what I’d miss.
Sunday dinners that turn into loud arguments that turn into louder laughter. Luca at the head of the table, acting like he’s not affected while his lips twitch. Vito making some comment that riles Caterina up, and they both make Nico roll his eyes. Roberto and Olivia doting over their new daughter, Isabella. The kids underfoot. More on the way.
Erica and Bianca were nearly neck and neck on the baby front, having gotten pregnant so close together. And I know that Luca and Elena are hoping for another soon.
Even the visits from Lucia, who lives in Las Vegas, makes the trip with her husband and two daughters for get-togethers.
I’d miss things. I’d feel it. I already feel it, just thinking about it.
But New York isn’t across an ocean. It’s not exile. It’s a train ride, a drive, a quick flight if we need it. My family would understand. They’d complain, because that’s what we do, but they’d understand.
And I can work from there—some of it, anyway. The tech side. The surveillance. The behind-the-scenes work nobody sees. I can make connections in New York City, too,open some more doors for us.
Hell, if we do it right, we can even push our influence, expand, with patience and brains instead of bullets.
The thought should make me feel powerful.
It does, a little.
I set the last container down and force my shoulders to loosen.
That thought isn’t for today. It’s not for right now. Right now, what matters is what Elsa needs to get through this. She needs warm food, comfort, a simple, easy night.
The bedroom door opens with the softest sound, and I hear her soft steps in the hallway before she appears in the doorway.
My sweatshirt hangs off her, sleeves swallowing her hands, hem brushing mid-thigh, the neckline loose enough that one shoulder keeps slipping free. The sweatpants sit low on her hips, cinched tight with the drawstring, but there’s still too much fabric, bunching at her thighs and pooling a little at her ankles.
Her hair is still damp, loose, and darker from the water, ends curling slightly against the sweatshirt. Her face is bare, and the lack of makeup isn’t what makes her look vulnerable.
It’s her eyes.
Wide, carrying too much. Like she’s trying to hold herself together with nothing but sheer will, and it’s barely working.
I feel the pang in my heart atthat.