“I know.”
“It was a cheap shot.”
I shook my head. “No. It was perspective.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Well, speaking of perspective, I think I may have flashed her.”
I shrugged, because this felt like exactly the kind of thing my mother would survive with remarkable resilience. “She’s seen worse.”
That finally made her exhale something dangerously close to a laugh.
I held on to the sound like a starving man offered bread.
“You came,” I said again, quieter, because I was not above repeating myself when emotional.
She looked away first. “We need to talk.”
I nodded. Not exactly the reconciliation I had imagined, but she was here, and that alone was enough to keep hope alive.
“Do you want a drink? Something to eat?”
She shook her head and sat down carefully on the leather sofa. “Maybe later.”
I sat opposite her, then immediately hated the distance and moved to the chair closer to her instead. Enough to feel real, not enough to presume.
She looked at her hands before lifting her eyes to mine.
“I don’t want you to stop being sotto capo.”
I went completely still.
She kept going before I could interrupt.
“This is the Pietro I fell in love with. Not the censored version. Not the hypothetical Boston-safe edition. You.” Her voice was steady, but I could hear the effort under it. “I understand it will be difficult. I understand there will be hard days. I understand there are things attached to loving you that I may never fully make peace with. But that’s not what I’m asking from you.”
My throat had gone dry.
“What are you asking?”
Her gaze didn’t waver.
“That if I do this, if I choose you again, I need to know that I am at the center of your life. Not your image of me. Not what you think is best for me. Me. That when things go wrong, you do not shut me out and become noble on my behalf. That we are in it together.”
“Always,” I said at once.
She lifted one hand. “Don’t commit too fast.”
I closed my mouth.
That was fair.
She let the silence settle before continuing. “I also know now that some of my rules were…” Her mouth tilted faintly. “Ambitious. Maybe unrealistic.”
“I wanted to follow them for you. Truly.”
“I know,” she said, and something about the softness of that hurt more than anger would have. “But I don’t need perfection, Pietro. I need honesty. I need effort. I need room to be part of the reality, not just the dream.”
I leaned forward, my forearms braced on my knees, wanting to give her all of my attention in a way that looked as serious as I felt.