Chapter Thirty Three #2
His face hardens.
“Yes.”
I close my eyes.
The shame is immediate and awful.
There shouldn't be any shame. I know that. Intellectually, I know that. I did not invite them in. I did not consent. I did not do anything wrong by existing in my own apartment while frightened and sick.
But knowledge does not stop the heat crawling up my throat.
“They watched me,” I say.
Mario’s voice is low. “Yes.”
No soft lie or pretty version.
The honesty hurts, but it studies me.
“And the rest of the articles?”
“They built them for you.”
I frown. “What?”
“Those first couple of Italian gossip pieces exist. They were old and ugly. You were right to dismiss them.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did at first.”
I look down.
“Yes.”
“You said you set it aside and then looked again in the morning. They likely worked to give you those other articles. They wanted to plant more seeds of doubt. Distance you from me.”
My mouth goes dry. “How could they know I would contact someone like Cindy Sullivan?”
“You are an attorney, and they knew that you would not accept information without a verifiable source,” he says. “Simply put: they studied you, predicted your behavior, and took a chance.”
“And I walked right into it,” I say, near tears again.
“They used your real feelings, real articles in Italy, real speculation. Real questions a woman in your position might have, then they gave you false answers in the direction they wanted you to walk. You had no reason to suspect.”
I pull the blanket closer.
“They made me think you killed her.”
His face changes at that. It's small, but I see it.
“I know.”
“I did not want to think it.”
“I know that too.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice cracks. “I hated myself for it. I kept telling myself I was being ridiculous. Then I kept searching because I needed to make the ridiculous thought go away, and it only got worse. Every search made me feel like I was being smart for asking, and awful for asking, and terrified that I had waited too long to ask.”
He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, not close enough to crowd me, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“I should have come to you,” I say.
“Yes.”
The answer cuts, but not cruelly.
“I should have asked.”
“Yes.”
My throat works.
“Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
I flinch.
“At them,” he says.
I look up.
“And at myself.”
“Why?”
“Because you did not believe you could ask me.”
I press my lips together. “That is not your fault.”
“Some of it is.”
“No.”
“Victoria.” His voice remains quiet. “I am not an easy man to question.”
I cannot argue with that.
“You are allowed to be afraid of what you do not know,” he says. “You are allowed to want answers before you trust me with your life.”
“I went to a stranger instead.”
“Yes.”
“And nearly got myself killed.”
“Again, yes.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I know.” He brushes my hair away from my face. “You keep saying that.”
“It’s not enough. I don’t know how to make it enough.”
“It is not about enough.”
“What is it about?”
“Truth. All of it,” he says. “Even when it is ugly. Even when it is difficult. Even when you think I will hate the question.”
My eyes burn. “Will you answer?”
“Yes.”
“Anything?”
A pause.
Then, “Anything that is mine to answer.”
That is fair.
Annoying but fair.
I breathe in, but the air shakes when I blow it out.
“Then tell me about Anna.”
His whole body stills.
For one awful second, I regret it.
Then he looks toward the fire and exhales slowly.
“All right.”
I wait.
He does not speak immediately.
When he does, his voice is different, softer.
“She was stubborn,” he says.
I almost smile through the tears in my eyes.
“So you have a type?”
“It would seem so.” He smiles briefly.
“She was kind to people even when they didn't necessarily deserve it. She loved full tables. She believed food solved more problems than it does, maybe all of them.”
My lips tremble.
“She was very devout,” he says. “But she could curse up a storm when she had to.”
His gaze returns to me.
“She hated quiet when it came from loneliness.”
My chest aches.
“Mario.”
He waits.
I force myself to say it outright.
“You still love her.”
“Always,” he says.
The tears slip out before I can stop them.
“That does not mean what you are afraid it means.”
I shake my head, but the words won't come out.
“I don't want you to think that you're some sort of replacement,” he says. “She was my wife. She was the mother of my sons. She died carrying my child. That grief is part of me. It will always be part of me. What I feel for you is separate from all of that.”
“That's not what I'm afraid of,” I say.
“Then what?”
When I don't answer, he puts his finger under my chin and tilts my face up to his.
“I’m afraid because I want that,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine.
“I want the full tables and the house that feels alive. I want the kind of love that leaves grief behind when it’s gone because it mattered that much. I didn't realize how much until just now.” I press my hand to my stomach. “I want this baby to grow up in a house like that.”
His thumb stills beneath my chin.
“But you already had that once.” My voice breaks.
“I know,” he says quietly.
The words are gentle, but they do not comfort me.
Because that is the problem.
He had it already. The once-in-a-lifetime thing. The kind of love people spend years hoping to find, and some never do.
He had the full table. The love of his life. The sons who still speak of her reverently. She’s stitched into the walls of a house bought years after she died
And I am terrified because I want something I don’t believe life gives twice. And I want it with him.
Even if it's too soon, even if it doesn't make any sense.
Mario is quiet for so long that I wonder if I have said too much.
Then his hand moves from beneath my chin to my cheek.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
His eyes are steady on mine.
“I cannot promise you the same life I had with Anna.”
My chest tightens.
“I would not insult either of you by trying.” His thumb brushes once over my cheek. “But I can promise you this. What grows here will not be less because I have loved before.”
I close my eyes because I want to believe that so badly it hurts.
“How can you know that?” I ask.
“Because it already isn’t less.”
My eyes open.
His face is closer now, serious and unguarded in a way I've never seen before.
“You walked into my building once,” he says. “Once, Victoria. That was all it took for me to rethink everything I thought I knew for the past ten years.
“I thought my life was full because I had made it useful. My sons. My brothers. The family. The businesses. The work.”
His thumb moves slowly against my cheek.
“Then you walked into my conference room, shook my hand, and held on just a moment longer. And for the first time in a decade, I wanted something that had nothing to do with duty.”
I sniffle and take a shaky breath.