6. Niccolo
— ? —
Niccolo
I hang up the phone and drop my head into my hands. The conversation with my cousin went nowhere, the same circular argument we’ve been having for weeks about foundation priorities and family obligations, and all I can think about is what I said.
What I admitted out loud for the first time. She doesn’t fit in this world. The words taste like poison, and not because they’re untrue.
Because they are true, in a way I never meant them to be taken, and I have no idea how to explain what I actually mean without sounding like the man I’ve been trying not to become.
I meant that this world doesn’t deserve her.
I meant that watching her shrink herself to fit into my mother’s expectations makes me sick with guilt.
I meant that the brightest thing in my life is slowly dimming, and I’m the one holding the switch, too buried in duty and obligation and the endless grinding machinery of the Morelli name to do anything about it.
But I didn’t say any of that. I never say any of that.
My father used to have a phrase for difficult situations: “These things resolve themselves.” He’d say it about business problems, family conflicts, anything that required actual emotional engagement.
And then he’d disappear into his study and let the problems fester until they either went away or exploded.
I swore I would never be like him. I’ve become him exactly.
I push back from the desk and walk to the window, looking out at the gardens that have been Morelli property for six generations.
My mother is out there somewhere, probably terrorizing the gardening staff about something they did or didn’t do to her specifications.
Charlotte has been around more often lately, filling the house with her easy laughter, and I still remember Danielle watching us that first afternoon with something careful in her eyes that I should have addressed and didn’t.
I’m failing her. I know I’m failing her.
Every canceled dinner, every midnight return, every conversation I don’t have because I’m too tired or too distracted or too much of a coward - it all adds up.
The woman I married is disappearing, and I keep telling myself that once things settle down, once the foundation gala is over, once this crisis or that obligation is handled, I’ll have time to fix it. There’s always one more thing. There’s never time.
This afternoon, her sister visited. Talia, the younger one, sharp and protective and nothing like the obedient deference my mother expects from guests.
I saw them in the garden through my study window, their heads bent together, and I wondered what they were talking about.
I should have gone down. I should have joined them, made Talia feel welcome, shown Danielle that her family matters to me.
Instead I stayed at my desk, finishing a call that could have waited, because my father’s voice in my head told me that business comes first and personal matters resolve themselves. These things resolve themselves.
Nothing resolves itself. I know that now. Things just get worse until someone does something, and I haven’t done anything. The door opens and my mother appears, her timing impeccable as always.
“Niccolo, we need to discuss the seating for next week’s dinner. Charlotte should be at your right hand, of course, given her family’s position, but I thought we might move the Contessa to-”
“Why?”
She pauses, one perfect eyebrow raised. “Why what, dear?”
“Why should Charlotte be at my right hand? Danielle should be sitting there.”
“Danielle will be perfectly comfortable further down the table. She’s said herself that she finds these formal dinners overwhelming. I thought we’d give her some breathing room.”
“Did she say that to you?”
“She implied it. One can always tell.” My mother settles into the chair across from my desk, arranging her skirt with practiced grace.
“Speaking of Danielle, I noticed her sister visited today. A bit rough around the edges, isn’t she?
I do hope Danielle’s family understands that these spontaneous visits can be disruptive to the household schedule. ”
I should defend Talia. I should tell my mother that Danielle’s family is my family now, that they’re welcome here anytime, that her cold politeness toward them is unacceptable.
Instead I say, “I’ll talk to Danielle about coordinating visits.”
The words come out automatically, the path of least resistance, and I hate myself a little more.
My mother smiles, satisfied, and moves on to discussing wine selections for the dinner, and I sit there thinking about the way Danielle looked this morning at breakfast.
Quiet. Contained. Nothing like the woman who yelled at me over risotto in a crowded restaurant because I was clearly just sending back perfectly good food to keep her at my table and didn’t I have better things to do with my time?
I fell in love with her fire. With her warmth.
With the way she looked at my name and my money and my legacy and saw straight through to the man underneath, and wanted him anyway.
She brought sunshine into a house that had been cold for as long as I could remember.
And I’ve let that sunshine go out, inch by inch, because I was too busy maintaining the ice.
“ - are you even listening to me?”
I blink. My mother is watching me with narrowed eyes.
“Sorry. Long day. What were you saying?”
“I was saying that Charlotte will be staying with us for the next few weeks. Her apartment situation in the city has become complicated, and it would be unconscionable to leave her in a hotel when we have all this space.”
“That’s… generous of you.”
“She’s practically family, Niccolo. Her father was your father’s closest friend. And she’s been through such a difficult time - that terrible man she was engaged to, the way her parents pushed her away to New York. The poor thing deserves a stable home while she gets back on her feet.”
The poor thing is a thirty-three-year-old woman with a trust fund and connections across two continents, but I don’t say that.
Charlotte has always been part of our world, woven into the fabric of my childhood in ways I’ve never questioned.
If my mother wants to play hostess, it’s not worth the argument.
“Fine,” I say. “Just make sure Danielle is comfortable with the arrangement.”
“Of course.” My mother rises, smoothing her skirt. “I’ll speak to her myself.”
She’s out the door before I can reconsider, and I sit there knowing I should have handled that differently.
Danielle should have been consulted first. I should have been the one to tell her, not my mother.
These things resolve themselves. My father’s voice again, and I want to put my fist through the wall.
Instead, I pull out a notebook and start writing.
The vacation house. That’s the one place that’s still ours, unspoiled by my mother’s influence or the weight of the Morelli name.
The place where Danielle still hums while she cooks and I can still be just Nico, the man she chose.
I’ll plan something special. A surprise.
The kind of romantic gesture I used to make when we were dating, before duty swallowed me whole.
Her favorite dish, the one her grandmother used to make, cooked the way she taught me before I forgot to keep learning.
The table set the way she likes it - simple, warm, nothing like the formal arrangements my mother insists on here.
I’ll bring her back to the place where we started.
I’ll remind her why we work. I’ll prove that the man she married is still in here somewhere, even if I’ve buried him under obligations and cowardice and my father’s voice telling me that emotional labor is beneath me.
She’ll see. She’ll understand. I’ll make it right. The notebook fills with plans - dates to check, dishes to prepare, details to arrange.
For the first time in months, I feel something that might be hope. I’m going to fix this. I just need a little more time to put it all together.