Chapter Twenty-Six – Lunetta
The spoon trembles slightly as I bring it to Nonna’s lips.
“Just one more,” I whisper, forcing a smile. “You have to eat, okay? Look how your color is coming back.”
Nonna blinks slowly, lips parting. She takes the bite without a word, her eyes already starting to drift shut again. Her hand, once strong and calloused from years of kneading dough and folding laundry, rests limp on the blanket.
Beside me, Bea hums quietly as she folds a blanket into a small basket. She tucks Nonna’s robe into the laundry bag and glances over, her voice casual, almost cheerful.
“If she eats any more, she’s going to start scolding me again. You know how she gets.”
I glance down at Nonna, her breathing shallow but steady. Her gray hair lies pressed against the pillow like strands of silk. A few months ago, she’d been a woman filled with life. Now she looks like a sigh barely clinging to the world.
Bea pauses behind me. I feel her gaze land on the side of my face, then down to the way my fingers still grip the edge of the tray too tight.
“You need rest too,” she says quietly.
I don’t answer.
It’s easier this way. Focus on her. In the room. On the rhythm of routine—medicine, food, soft words, long nights curled in a visitor chair. Every second here is a distraction from the thoughts I don’t want to touch. The memories I fold and refold like sheets in my mind.
Bea told me everything.
How Nonna begged the police for help after I vanished. How they gave her nothing but indifference. How she kept the café open anyway, hoping. Then one day, strangers in dark coats walked in. Said they were “asking questions.” She didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t eat the next day. By evening, she collapsed in the kitchen and never woke up the same.
Bea hadn’t asked me where I’d been.
And I hadn’t volunteered.
For that, I'm grateful. I don't want to talk about men with guns, explosions, or Vieri Tavano and his brothers. I don't want to admit how badly I miss someone I should hate.
The soup tray scrapes slightly as I stand.
“I’ll get her some water,” I say, brushing my palms against my skirt.
Bea nods. “I’ll change the sheets.”
I take two steps. Then the floor tilts. A dizzy blur sweeps up behind my eyes. My knees weaken. I reach for the table, miss it entirely.
Then arms wrap around me.
“I’ve got you!” Bea gasps, steadying me.
“Lune—hey—Lune, breathe. Sit down.”
Bea helps me lower into the chair. She crouches to my level, her brows drawn tight.
“Sit. I’ll handle Nonna.”
I nod, though the edges of the room still waver. My body feels like it might fold in on itself. Bea crosses to the other side of the bed, pouring water from the carafe into a plastic cup and holding it gently to Nonna’s lips.
Nonna sips with effort, her hand fluttering like paper as she touches Bea’s arm. A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
Her eyes don’t have the same snap as before. They drift off often, unfocused, as if her mind is slipping between layers of a dream she can’t wake from. She still doesn’t recognize Bea or me.
Bea tucks the covers higher under her chin, whispering some joke I can’t catch, brushing a kiss against her forehead. Then she glances at me. Her expression flickers—concern hidden behind the mask of strength she always wears when I’m watching.
Nonna is off life support now. The machines have quieted. She can talk in fragments, hold a spoon with trembling fingers. It’s progress. They call it progress.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
This isn’t the woman who raised me.
This isn’t the Nonna who used to chase boys out of the café with a broom or scold me for using too much cinnamon in the custard. She’s... shrinking.
Her hands are thinner now, almost translucent. Her arms don’t fill the sleeves of her gown anymore. Her skin clings to bone like it’s forgotten how to hold warmth. The lines on her face have deepened in just a month.
I cover my mouth, but it doesn’t help.
The sob pushes through my chest before I can stop it. My throat tightens, and the breath stutters out of me in shudders I can’t contain.
Bea is at my side in an instant.
Her arms wrap around me. Not gentle—tight. Like she’s trying to keep the pieces of me from spilling out.
“Lune,” she whispers into my hair. “It’ll be fine. She’s going to be okay.”
But I don’t know what “okay” means anymore.
I rest my forehead against Bea’s shoulder and cry harder. My fingers grip her shirt as if holding on will anchor me, and will stop the storm rising in my chest.
I want to believe her. I want to trust that this is temporary. That Nonna will one day stand again and shout at the oven when the gas is low. That she’ll braid my hair like she did when I was twelve and worried about school.
But all I can see is how tired Nonna looks. How much weight she’s lost. How her smiles don’t quite reach her eyes anymore.
My shoulders tremble as the sobs deepen, body rocking in Bea’s arms.
And through it all, one image keeps slipping in where it doesn’t belong—
Vieri.
His voice, his touch. The way he whispered that I was safe. That I was his.
And the way he left me with nothing but guilt.
How can I miss someone who ruined everything? How can my heart reach for him while my soul is falling apart beside the only woman who’s ever truly loved me?
I shake harder, the grief tangling with confusion, with guilt, with that unbearable ache for a man who never should have mattered.
Bea holds me tighter, humming now, as if she knows words would only make it worse.
I don’t know how long I cry.
But it feels like something inside me breaks open quietly, like glass beneath pressure—never shattering, just... giving up.
****
Bea left an hour ago to help her mother, promising to return before night settled fully. Now it’s just me and Nonna. Her breaths are soft again, shallow and spaced far apart.
The Bible sits by her pillow, its pages worn, edges curling in places. The rosary lies atop it—glinting like a reminder of who I used to be. Of who I want to be again.
My fingers ache to reach for it. To touch the cross and beg God to give me a miracle.
But I don’t. I just stare.
What if I’m not worthy? What if everything I’ve done—all the sin and shame and the man I gave myself to—means that when I pray, God won’t hear me anymore?
Nonna’s hand shifts, her body slowly stretching as if waking from a long nap. She turns her head and her gaze finds mine. Usually, her eyes are clouded with confusion, not recognition.
But this time, she smiles.
“My baby,” she whispers.
A sharp gasp leaves me. Tears rush down without warning as I lurch forward. “Nonna?”
Her hand rises—fragile, trembling—and cups my cheek. Warmth floods me from that small touch, something I’d missed for so long it feels like breathing again after being underwater.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob, curling against her side. “I should’ve come home. I should’ve stayed. I was gone and you were here and—”
“No, no, my girl.” Her voice is cracked but certain. “I failed. I couldn’t protect you. I promised I would. I swore to your parents I’d never let anyone hurt you.”
“You didn’t fail,” I cry, shaking my head. “You saved me. You always saved me.”
She blinks slowly, as if every breath is precious. “I don’t have much time, Lunetta. My heart... it’s tired. I’ve lived a long life. And now... it’s calling me.”
“No,” I whisper. “Nonna, I need you. Please don’t say that. Please.”
She smiles, eyes wet with the truth. “God knows I tried. I tried to keep you safe. I tried to do right by Lena and Vasco. But maybe the Lord had a different plan.”
I clutch her hand tightly. “Don’t talk like that. You’re getting better. You’re going to walk out of here. We’ll go back to the café and we’ll—”
“There’s a trust in your name,” she interrupts gently. “It’s all arranged. You’ll find the documents in the drawer at home. You won’t need to work a day in your life if you don’t want to.”
I stare at her, a terrible realization crawling up my throat like a scream I can’t release. This isn’t comfort. It’s a farewell.
“Nonna... no.” My voice cracks. “You said you’d always be with me. You promised.”
She smiles again—fragile, fading. “Your parents loved you so much. They begged me to protect you... and love you. And I did. You were never mine by blood, but I loved you more than anyone ever could. You made my life... you made it whole, my girl.”
I bury my face in her shoulder, my chest heaving.
Her hand covers mine once more. “Leave Italy. Go with Bea. Change your name. Start again.”
“Nonna, stop—please,” I sob. “We’ll start again. All three of us. Me, you, Bea. So just... stay. Please stay.”
She brings my hand to her lips. A kiss, light as breath, brushes my knuckles.
And then—her eyes close.
“Nonna?”
Her chest doesn’t rise again.
“Nonna—” My voice breaks.
I shake her gently. “Nonna. Please. Wake up. Don’t do this.”
I stumble back, dizzy, nauseous. Then I scream.
I tear the door open, stumble into the hallway. “Help!” I shout. “Nurse! Someone help!”
Footsteps thunder toward me. A nurse rushes past, followed by a doctor in a white coat, stethoscope swinging. I try to follow them in but another nurse grabs me by the arms.
“Miss—please wait outside—”
“No!” I cry, clawing past her grip. “That’s my grandmother! Please—she was talking to me—she was awake—”
The machines fall quiet.
One flat tone hums into the walls.
The doctor lowers his stethoscope and turns toward me, his face pale, solemn.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“No,” I whisper, shoving past the nurse. “No, no, wait—”
My knees slam into the edge of the bed as I reach for her, clutching at her arms, her shoulders. “Nonna, please—wake up—” My hands press against her chest, as if I can will her heart to start again. “Don’t do this, please, please—”
Arms wrap around me from behind, dragging me back.
“Let me go!” I scream. “Don’t touch me—she’s not—she’s not gone! She’s not—!”
I claw at the sheets, sobbing, fighting to hold on to any part of her. Her wrist. Her fingers. Her nightgown. Anything.
“Stop—let me go, she just kissed my hand—she just spoke to me!”
But the nurse holds tight. Another joins her.
I kick, sob, scream into their uniforms, reaching for the bed even as it gets farther away. Her body lies still beneath the sheet they draw slowly over her face. I see the outline of her jaw.
My fingers scrape the floor as they pull me back. She’s right there. And I can’t touch her.
I collapse to the ground as they ease me down, my screams shrinking to broken gasps, hands trembling against the tile.
****
I sit on the hardwood floor of Nonna’s bedroom, cross-legged and broken. The hem of my black dress bunches around my thighs, stiff with dried creases. I haven’t moved in hours, maybe longer. My palms are pale, fingers stiff from gripping the edges of the documents spread across the rug like puzzle pieces I don’t know how to put back together.
The pages tremble faintly in my hands. Not from wind. There is no breeze here. The windows are shut tight, the curtains drawn. The air—heavy and unmoving—clings to my skin like a damp shroud. I can’t remember when I last drank water. Or stood up.
A birth certificate.
The names on it are strangers.
Another paper beneath it bears my name at the top—Lunetta Fiore, in elegant print—followed by legal phrases I can barely comprehend. A formal record of adoption. Carmela’s signature etched at the bottom, steady and sure. I run my finger over it. She signed it like she signed her love.
There’s a third document. Thicker. Older. A trust account with my name on it, passed down from the people I never got to know.
I stare at it all. Everything I believed I knew… was a story she had chosen for me.
Nonna is gone.
Buried yesterday in that church I used to love. I wore this same dress. The same shoes. I haven’t undone the braid in my hair since that morning. I can feel it loosening now, strands clinging to my cheeks.
I haven’t left this room. Not since the last guest left the wake. I’d come in here with a glass of untouched water, closed the door behind me, and when Bea knocked—I turned the lock.
Father Romani told me the truth at the cemetery gates. His words still echo.
“She wasn’t your grandmother, Lunetta. She adopted you the day after your parents’ accident.”
I didn’t ask questions. I couldn’t. My voice had vanished somewhere between the eulogy and the final shovel of dirt.
I hug my knees to my chest. My body aches from sitting, but I can’t stretch. I don’t want to feel the cold seeping into my limbs.
I miss the warmth of the café’s ovens. The way Nonna would hum while kneading dough. The way she’d tilt her head and ask, “Have you prayed today, my girl?” I’d always said yes. Back then, it was true. I felt God in those mornings—in the vanilla scent of pastries, in Bea’s laughter, in Nonna’s tired hands wiping flour from my cheek.
Now? Nothing. He took her from me and left me all alone.
I close my eyes, but it only makes the spinning worse. The shadows tilt. My head feels too heavy for my neck. My arms drop to the floor beside me, limp. I blink hard, trying to focus, but my vision shimmers at the edges like heat rising from pavement.
“Lune?”
Bea’s voice, muffled by the wood.
“You’ve been in there all night. I swear, I’m breaking this door—”
The panic in her voice cracks something open in me. I try to speak, but my throat feels packed with cotton. I reach for the documents, scatter them clumsily into a pile, but my fingers barely obey.
I push off the floor, dragging myself forward. One arm in front of the other. My knees scrape against the hardwood. I inch toward the door like someone crawling from a grave.
My fingertips touch the baseboard. Then the doorframe.
The knob is just inches away.
“Bea…” I whisper, or maybe I don’t. My lips form her name but no sound comes.
I grip the doorknob. But my strength gives out.
My body pitches sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall. I slump to the floor like a puppet cut loose from its strings. The room swims again, tilting. My eyes roll upward.
And then— the door flies open.
A rush of air hits me, and Bea’s scream pierces through it.
“LUNA!”
I feel her hands—small, frantic—under my arms. Her knees hit the floor beside me. She says my name again, louder this time, shaking me, brushing the hair from my face.
But I’m slipping.
Sliding down into that quiet place beneath it all. That place where grief has no words and pain is just a slow fading light.
The last thing I hear is Bea crying out for help.
And then I fall away.