10. Aria #2
He nods slowly. There are tears gathering in his eyes, though he doesn't let them fall.
I see the effort it takes, the way he swallows hard and curls his fingers into my shirt like he's trying to hold the moment still.
And for all my strength, I nearly break.
I want to tell him the truth.
That his father's name is Enzo Salvatore and that he once looked at me like I was the last piece of light in a world swallowed by shadow.
That we loved in stolen hours, in hallways built for war, in rooms where everything was made of fire and silence.
I want to tell Gabriel that his father whispered my name like a vow the night before I vanished, and that if there were a version of our lives untouched by blood feuds and family honor, Enzo might have been reading to him every night instead of becoming a ghost I carry alone.
But I cannot tell him those things.
I made my choice five years ago.
I chose survival.
I chose him.
When Gabriel was born, I knew hiding would no longer be enough.
I needed stability, not just invisibility.
A government program for migrant mothers helped me get certified as a translator.
Spanish to Italian.
French to Italian.
I had always been good with languages, and it was something I could do without drawing attention.
I built a reputation slowly, one job at a time, working with small clinics and legal aid offices that needed help bridging gaps.
No one ever asked where I was from.
I made sure of that.
I keep my ear to the ground through a single contact in Florence.
A florist with ties to an old mutual friend of Luciana's.
She tells me what I need to know, no more, no less.
Which families are rising. Who has fallen. Whether the Salvatores are looking for me. Whether Luca's wrath still festers like an open wound.
The last I heard, the Lombardi name had crumbled under the weight of its silence.
My death, staged as it was, came at the cost of their favor.
No one punishes betrayal like a grieving king who learns his wife's disappearance was not an accident, but a choice.
I cannot pretend I do not think of Enzo.
There are nights when the ache of missing him presses so sharply against my ribs I have to bite the inside of my cheek just to breathe.
I remember the way he used to watch me across a room, like he was always calculating how to reach me fastest if everything fell apart.
I remember his hands.
The things they did to me.
The things they held back from the rest of the world.
I remember the way he said my name in the dark, not with tenderness, but with something more dangerous.
A reverence sharpened by sin.
And yet, he made his choice.
He stood beside Luca.
He said the family came first.
And I will never forgive him for that.
Because while he was swearing loyalty to a legacy soaked in blood, I was carving a future from ashes.
I was bleeding alone, scared and desperate, trying to give our child a life worth surviving.
Gabriel curls closer into me now, his head resting against my collarbone, and I breathe in the scent of his sun-warmed skin.
I can feel the tears burning, but I refuse to let them fall. I have no room for fragility anymore. Only resolve.
"I want to meet him someday," he says quietly. "Even just once."
My throat tightens, but I kiss his forehead and nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because the truth is, so do I.
"Let's go have lunch somewhere special, yes?" I clear my throat and extend my hand to him. "Come on, darling boy."
Gabriel insists on carrying the bucket of shells, both arms wrapped around its plastic handle as if it contains treasure more precious than anything the world could offer.
His cheeks are flushed from sun and sea, hair still damp at the edges, curling softly against his forehead.
I drape a towel over his shoulders and gather our things, folding the blanket with one hand and slinging the tote over my shoulder.
The path from the beach is steep and shaded with bottlebrush trees, and the scent of crushed saltbush and rosemary clings to our legs as we climb.
By the time we reach the ridge, the breeze carries the warm scent of bread and basil, the kind that tells you the morning market is in full swing.
The square is nestled between old stone buildings that lean like old friends into each other, their shutters painted in fading blues and greens.
Market stalls bloom like patchwork—striped awnings fluttering over crates of peaches, mounds of tomatoes so red they border on decadent, wheels of cheese stacked beside baskets of wild thyme and flowering arugula.
Sunlight cuts across the square in thick golden slants, catching in the glass jars of honey and the curved necks of oil bottles.
Somewhere nearby, a woman is playing a wooden flute, the tune lilting and half-forgotten, threaded with the chatter of locals and the shuffle of sandaled feet.
Gabriel tugs my hand eagerly, pointing toward the olives, then the honeycombs, then the stall where a man is slicing prosciutto so thin it glows.
"Can we get the sweet kind again?" he asks, eyes wide. "With the little white seeds?"
I smile, already reaching into my coin purse. "You mean the figs?"
He nods furiously. "Yes. Figs. But only if they're squishy, not dry."
We walk slowly through the market, letting the rhythm of the morning settle into our bones.
I greet the vendors I've come to know by voice and smell rather than name: an old woman with hands like olive bark who always slips an extra plum into Gabriel's bag, a young couple who sell herbs from their rooftop garden and ask no questions when I pay in exact change.
I choose a loaf of sourdough with a blistered crust and a soft cow's cheese wrapped in lemon leaves.
I buy a tomato so ripe it gives under my thumb, its skin velvet-smooth.
And figs, of course. The squishy kind.
We settle on a low stone bench near the fountain, where the pigeons linger and children climb.
Gabriel peels the fig and grins at the stickiness of it, licking the syrup from his fingers and leaning his head against my shoulder while I slice the bread and cheese into a makeshift picnic.
For a few moments, the world feels whole. I let myself pretend that this is all there ever was; sun, figs, my son beside me, and the miracle of a life reclaimed.
But peace, I've learned, is not a thing you get to keep. Not when you are born from blood.
It starts as a flicker in the periphery.
A shadow behind movement.
Then, there is the brief, unmistakable shift of posture that sets every muscle in my body on edge.
I freeze, the knife halfway through a second slice, and my gaze slides carefully, naturally, toward the opposite side of the market.
A man. Broad shoulders, gray jacket, and the cut far too clean for this village.
He stands by the wine vendor, browsing bottles he has no interest in, his eyes masked behind dark glasses, but I know that body.
I know the shape of that jaw.
The line of his shoulders.
I have seen him before, with Enzo.
No matter how many times I blink, that part won't change.
My mind isn't making him up.
I swallow once, and force my hands to keep moving. Bread. Cheese. Another fig, split open.
I laugh softly at something Gabriel says, the sound forced through clenched teeth.
But inside me, alarms are sounding like war drums.
It has been five years.
I have changed my name.
My hair is longer.
I walk differently.
I speak with a lilt borrowed from the women who raise goats in the hills and wear woven sandals.
But the Salvatore family and their men never forget a face. And I would be a fool to believe I am entirely forgotten.
Gabriel leans into me again, licking cheese from his fingers. "Mama," he says softly, "why are you holding my hand so tight?"
I hadn't noticed. My grip has gone white-knuckled around his wrist.
I force a smile. "Just don't want you running off, sweetheart. This place is busy."
The man hasn't moved.
He is still by the wine stand, but he is not shopping. He is scanning, watching. I need to go.
I reach into the bag and pull out a cloth napkin, wrap the remaining food, and tuck it all away with a calm I do not feel.
My heart is a thunderclap against my ribs.
Not now. Not here.
Not with Gabriel so close I can feel the heat of his breath.
I stand, slow and smooth, and lift the bag to my shoulder.
"Time to go home, little love."