Chapter 02
Everything. For Cecilia.
Alexander
Breathtakingly beautiful.
It’s the first thought that hits me the moment I open the car door to help her step out. The same thought that struck me months ago, the first time I saw her standing on the shore in the Hamptons.
I was instantly mesmerized. So utterly taken that instead of scolding Sam for nearly knocking her over, I almost thanked him.
He brought her close. Close enough for me to see the exact shade of her eyes, the freckles along her nose and cheekbone, to hear the hitch in her breath.
When she pointed toward her children, my gaze went straight to her hands. And seeing the rings on her finger... it hit like a blow to the chest.
I didn’t ask about her husband, there was no need. No man in his right mind would willingly stay away from a woman like her.
But when he wasn’t there the next morning, nor later when I brought the fish for her and the kids, the realization struck with cold clarity.
She must have married a stronzo[II]. An absolute idiot.
And my suspicion became certainty the night I saw them again at the charity gala at the Waldorf Astoria, almost two months after the Hamptons.
I could hardly believe my luck when I spotted her across the room. She was speaking to a taller brunette, offering polite smiles that never reached her eyes.
Those eyes were somewhere else entirely, distant, dimmed in a way that had no business belonging to a woman like her.
Then I saw him: the blond man at her side. Perfect posture, meticulously styled hair, tuxedo pressed within an inch of its life... and his hand on her, always on her. The stronzo.
That day I silently chastised myself, a forty-one-year-old man. I should have known better than to think like a jealous teenager. But the truth was simple: I envied him. I wanted to be exactly where he stood.
When they began walking in my direction, I took it as a sign. I excused myself from the man I was speaking to and crossed the room to greet them.
She was stunning. But it was the way she smiled at me, that broke something open inside my chest.
Then came the idiot, Colin Montgomery, showing his true nature within seconds. The possessive pull of his hand on her waist. The unnecessarily firm handshake, as if to say, “This is mine, not yours.”
I was amused, mostly. I tried, truly tried, not to look at her for the rest of the night. I failed every time.
And then came the day I read the post “When you know, you know” on her blog. I reread it a hundred times, each word confirming the truth I didn’t want to accept:
It wasn’t fiction, speculation, or a possibility. It was a woman’s soul, cracked open and bared for anyone willing to see.
I didn’t think twice before asking the right person to get me her number.
Our paths crossed again in December, at the worst possible moment. I had just finished reading that absurd article in the car when we pulled up to my building.
I will never forget the look in her eyes. Frightened. Shaken. The way her hands trembled around the glass of water I handed her... the way she could barely speak...
All of it because of a man too blind, too stupid, to understand the treasure he had been holding. Even now, I can’t comprehend how Montgomery could be such a fool.
I swear it, had she remained married, I would have kept my distance. It would have hurt, regardless, I would have been satisfied to see her happiness from the margins.
But as my Nonno used to say:
“Quello che per te è spazzatura, per un altro può essere un tesoro.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
And in that moment... I understood exactly what he meant. And for the first time in a very long time, I allowed myself to want.
I bring her hand to my lips, brushing a kiss over her skin. Our eyes meet, and the sensation is the same one that struck me the first time I held her hand.
Trying to bury the flood of emotions rising in me, I say, “Ciao, bella[III],” my voice coming out hoarse.
She smiles.
“Ciao, Alexander.”
For the past two months, she’s been slipping bits of Italian into our conversations, always curious about the meanings behind the words I let slip.
There are so many more I’d like to say to her...
“You look beautiful, Cecily.”
As always when I say her name, I have to resist the urge to call her Cecilia.
I’m not sure how comfortable she’d be with me using the softer, more intimate—and far closer to my heart—version of her name.
“Thank you. You’re not bad yourself,” she says, adjusting her purse as I release her hand.
“No security detail today?” she teases.
I smile.
“No.” I sigh. “It’s one of those things my uncle Giorgio—the one who oversees security for the entire family—insists on whenever I travel abroad. But I don’t like having them around me all the time.”
I don’t mention that they’re nearby, discreetly stationed just out of sight. The closest thing to a compromise my uncle’s unrelenting paranoia will ever allow.
I gesture toward the entrance of the restaurant and force myself not to place my hand on the small of her back.
We’re shown to our table, and the sommelier approaches almost immediately. When he turns to present the cellar selection to me, I ask him to hand it to Cecily.
Her eyes widen, surprised, but she accepts it right away. Of course that coglione[IV] she was married to used to choose the wine. Probably chose the food as well. Because “he knew better.”
After we place our order and the wine is poured, Cecily looks at me and smiles.
“So you chose your maternal side for our lunch today?” she asks.
“You said the other day you were craving crème br?lée. I heard the one they make here is among the best in the city.”
During one of our first phone calls, I told her about my parents.
A French woman and an Italian man who met while he was on holiday in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.
Annette was twenty-one, Matteo was twenty-two. They fell in love at first sight and eloped, much to the horror of my father’s family, who preferred church weddings and loud, extravagant celebrations.
I was born a few months later. They stayed together for only two years, two stubborn souls from two different worlds, unable to meet in the middle.
My mother moved to the United States when she was offered a job at a fashion magazine in New York. She brought me with her.
She married Kevin Brown—who was her editor-in-chief back then—that same year. My stepfather is a good man, and he’s been a great father to my only sister.
My father never married again. I used to visit him in Italy often, and eventually moved there when I was seventeen.
He died when I was twenty-six, a sudden heart attack, gone quietly in his sleep. My mother passed five years ago, taken by a rare form of brain cancer. But as she always said near the end, she had lived a full life with no regrets, leaving her love in the legacy she built… and in her children.
“I doubt it’s as good as the one your grandmother makes,” Cecilia says, smiling.
One day, I think, you’ll taste everything my nonna makes.
It is both a hope and a promise.
Lunch turns out to be the best meal I’ve had in my entire life. I have to make an effort to keep my expression neutral as Cecily tells me about settling into the new house, her plans for the week, and the article she’s working on about the North American healthcare system.
I like this shift in our dynamic.
Over the phone, I’m usually the one who talks the most, telling her about my family, about the places I travel to for work. But I could listen to her for hours.
When the crème br?lée arrives, she cracks the sugar top with her spoon and takes the first bite. I almost groan when she closes her eyes, a soft sound slipping from her throat.
I clear my own.
“Is it any good?”
Her eyes meet mine, and she nods with a smile. I try to focus on my crêpe au chocolat for the rest of the time, and fail completely.
When the check arrives and I see her reaching for her purse, I place my hand gently over hers.
“I invited you. I’m paying.”
“Alexander, this isn’t a date. I should at least split it,” she says, looking slightly embarrassed.
I’d be lying if I said her calling it not a date didn’t sting. But she’s right—it isn’t. Nor will the next lunches or dinners I plan to take her to.
She’s not ready. It isn’t the time, but I’ll wait. For her, waiting is a small price.
“I insist. Where I come from, men pay for the meal even when it isn’t a date.”
She sighs and nods.
After paying, I walk her to the car and open the door the moment she unlocks it, but she doesn’t step inside right away.
“Thank you for the invitation. Lunch was amazing and the company even better. And thank you, especially... for the friend you’ve been to me.”
I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek.
“If anyone should be grateful, it’s me.” I hold her gaze so she knows I mean every word. “Drive safely, and please text me when you get home.”
Cecilia nods, steps inside, and I stay exactly where I am, watching her until her car turns right at the end of the street and disappears.
“See you soon, bella mia[V].”
Morning breaks through the tall window, sketching pale lines across the Italian stone floor.
“They arrived yesterday from Carrara,” Lilian, my executive assistant at the New York headquarters, says as she places a folder on my desk. “New samples of the Bianco Macchiato, and the quarterly extraction report.”
I nod, running my thumb along the edge of one of the samples. The central vein splits the white in almost symmetrical lines, a rarity.
“This vein is natural?” I ask.
“Yes. No retouching.”
“Good. Keep it that way. Imperfections tell the story.”
She checks her notes for a moment before continuing.
“Export numbers dipped marginally. But transport costs went down as well, almost ten percent.”
“Ideally, both should decrease,” I say, eyes drifting to the window. “Margin isn’t the priority here. Stability is. And in our line of work, rushing production or logistics always costs more in the long run.”
Lilian notes something down on her tablet. We’ve worked together long enough that few words are needed.
“Would you like me to schedule the meeting with the China client?”
“Not yet. I want to see the cut from the lot. Send me the video first.”
She nods and gathers the reports. Before leaving, she turns back.
“You should be proud, Alexander. Santoro Marmo has never grown this fast in such a saturated market.”
I glance at the marble beneath my feet, more than a material, it carries the weight of generations.
“Pride is dangerous,” I say. “I prefer knowing there’s always something left to master.”
She gives a small smile, then the door closes behind her.
I lift one of the samples and tilt it toward the light.
The marble catches the sun and gives it back in a muted glow.
There are small imperfections in it that could never be replicated by machines, and never with the same quality and endurance.
This is what comes to mind whenever people ask what I do.
I don’t sell stone; I sell permanence. Something that outlives us and stays to tell many stories.
My phone vibrates on the desk. The moment I see her name, I reach for it.
Cecilia: I can’t believe I had never read this author before! I’m completely fascinated by how he weaves every detail into the story. So rich, so complex. Thank you so much for the recommendation.
Attached is a photo of The Island of the Day Before, by Umberto Eco.
The truth is, I don’t read as much as I’d like to. But some books never leave you, and this is one of them. I thought she might like it, which is why I suggested it. I would have sent her the hard copy, but I didn’t want to seem too eager.
Me: Glad it was to your liking. I’ll think about which of the other five books I’ve read in my entire life I can recommend next.
She replies calling me tonto[VI], followed by a laughing emoji.
I try to picture her laughing somewhere in her new house, the same way she sometimes bursts into laughter when I tell her about Sam’s mischief or some ridiculous story from my family.
My eyes stay fixed on the screen as I absentmindedly stroke my beard, my thoughts wandering to everything I want to show her.
Everything.
For Cecilia, I’m willing to give more than I ever have.