Forty
Chiara
The chair legs scrape behind me as the barista moves around the seating area wiping down tables, and I keep my eyes on the window and the strip of road beyond it because it is the only thing in the room that moves in a way I can follow without thinking.
My phone sits on the table, face up, the screen dark. I leave it there and rest my hand at the edge, fingers curled but not reaching for it.
A chair scrapes behind me. They’ll be closing soon.
What am I going to do if she doesn’t show up?
I glance at the door and then back to the window. Cars keep moving through the turn, stopping at the light, pulling forward again. Different cars. Same pattern.
Sela should have called by now. Did she make the call, or did she get home and decide not to get involved, or she made it and nothing came of it, or she heard my name and chose to stay out of it?
The door stays closed.
We had a big funeral for her. We all grieved for her. Jim could be wrong. The address, the name—any part of it could be off just enough that I’m sitting here waiting for someone who isn’t connected to any of this.
If that’s the case, I don’t have another way in. I don’t have a name that gets me through the gate, and I don’t have anyone else to call.
I keep watching the door anyway, holding that line between the table and the street, waiting for it to open.
It doesn’t.
A flash of silver cuts across the window.
I lean toward the glass before I can stop myself, tracking it as it passes through the intersection and disappears down the block.
Not stopping. Not here.
I sit back, my hand sliding along the edge of the table as I reset my focus on the door.
For a second, I think I missed it.
The thought holds just long enough to settle.
Then a silver BMW pulls up and idles at the curb, the windshield throwing back a reflection of the coffee shop so I can’t see inside. I lean a fraction toward the glass, trying to catch movement through the glare, but it holds.
The engine stays on, but no one gets out.
I shift in the chair, my hand sliding along the edge of the table as I keep my eyes on the car. I could go outside, and see who’s behind the glass instead of waiting for it to come to me. But I don’t move.
The driver’s door opens.
Slowly she steps out. It’s my mother. My breath catches. It’s her.
I stay where I am, watching through the window as she closes the door behind her and pauses beside the car, her hand moving over the front of her shirt, smoothing it down before she lifts her head.
She checks the street first.
Then the windows. Her gaze moves across the front of the shop, slow and deliberate, taking it in before she commits to the door.
The bell above the door sounds, and we make eye contact.
She stands just inside the doorway with one hand still on the handle, her body angled toward the street like she has not decided to come in. The door shuts behind her, easing inward before settling into place, but she does not move with it.
Then her eyes lift.
To the shop. The couple behind me are busy on their phones and not paying attention.
Her gaze moves in a deliberate sweep across the space, taking in the tables, the counter, the windows, the reflection in the glass, and the door behind the counter before settling anywhere. She does not rush it. She does not hesitate. She measures.
It isn’t just her face. The softness I remember has tightened into something more controlled.
It’s in the set of her shoulders and the way she holds at the threshold instead of stepping fully into the room, her weight still slightly back like she’s already mapped her way out.
Even now, she pauses before committing to coming in.
I cross the room without slowing, my eyes fixed on her as I reach her before she can turn back to the door. My hand lifts as I reach her.
I don’t give her time to move, and I don’t stop.
My hands close around her shoulders as I step in, the contact moving her back a fraction before she steadies. I follow it, closing the rest of the distance, my other hand sliding to her arm as I pull her in and lock my hold around her.
Her arms wrap around me. Then her hands come up. “Cuore mio,” she says into my neck.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I tell her, my eyes flooding.
She pulls back just enough to see me, her hands staying on my shoulders, her grip steady, not letting me go. Her gaze moves over my face, quick, precise, taking in what’s changed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says quietly. Her eyes flick past me to the window before returning. “Who brought you?”
“You’re alive,” I say.
“How did you find me?” Her gaze doesn’t stay on me. It flicks past my shoulder, checks the reflection in the window, tracks something outside before coming back, and even then it doesn’t settle.
“There’s so much to tell you—”
“I read the paper,” she cuts in, her voice low. “I saw what they’re doing.”
“I’m not going to marry him.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, her hands still on me but her weight already pulling back. “Did anyone follow you?”
“No.” I tighten my grip on her arms when she starts to pull away. “Wait.”
“It’s not safe for either of us.”
“Why did you leave?” The words come out sharper now. “Why didn’t you take me with you?”
“It was safer to leave you with them,” she says.
“You left me with him.”
Her jaw sets, the muscle jumping, her body angling toward the door. “You don’t understand what he would have done if—”
“Safer?” I cut in, tightening my grip before she can finish. “He’s forcing me into a loveless marriage.”
Her breath catches. Her hands ease against me, no longer drawing me in. Her gaze breaks, flicking past me to the window, to the reflection in the glass.
It shows, quick and contained, gone almost as soon as it surfaces. Her shoulders move under my hands, a flinch she tries to bury as her gaze slips past me—then stops.
Her breath catches. And her gaze breaks, flicking past me to the window.
Ciro moves in, just close enough that I feel the change in him, his attention tracking where hers just went.
The air tightens around us. I step in, keeping my hold where it is, closing the distance until she has no choice but to meet my eyes again.
“Chiara.”
I don’t move. My hands stay locked on her arms as Ciro steps in behind me, his shoulder cutting into my line of sight. Beyond him, through the glass, movement—
Ciro doesn’t look at me. His gaze moves past the window, to the door and then back again, checking angles before settling.
Her hands fall away.
“No,” she says under her breath.
Ciro steps closer, one hand hovering at my arm, not pulling yet, just there—ready.
I don’t move. My hands stay locked on her arms. Beyond him, through the glass, movement—another man taking position near the curb, a second just inside the door, both of them watching the room without looking like they are.
Her gaze catches over my shoulder and locks. This time it doesn’t move.
Everything in her stills.
Her hands drop from me. Not slow. Not deliberate. They fall away like she’s already stepped out of this.
“No.” I catch her arm before she can turn away.
“Chiara.” Ciro’s hand closes around my wrist, firm, controlled. He doesn’t yank. He holds.
I turn.
Beyond Ciro, through the glass, movement—one man near the curb, another just inside the door, both of them watching the room without looking like they are.
When I look back, she’s already stepping away. Her body angles toward the exit, her focus no longer on me.
“Don’t,” I say, reaching for her again.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she says, her voice tight now, controlled but breaking at the edges as her eyes flick past me again, tracking positions, exits, timing. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.”
“We need to go,” Ciro says.
“No.” I grab her arm, holding her in place. “Not now.”
“It’s too late for this.” She tries to pull free, not looking at me anymore. “They’re already here.”
A car door shuts outside, not loud, but wrong enough to cut through the room.
Her hand slips from my arm as her head turns toward the window, her attention leaving me completely.
Footsteps carry through the quiet.
Ciro goes still behind me. Not frozen—set. His grip tightens once at my wrist and then steadies, his focus already past me.
Everything in her stills.
Another door closes, closer this time. Footsteps follow, steady, controlled.
Ciro steps in behind me, his shoulder cutting into my line of sight as he angles between me and the door.
“Chiara,” he says, low and close. “We’re leaving.”
My mother moves first. She steps back, immediate, creating space like she’s already disengaging.
“No.” I catch her arm before she can turn away, pulling her back toward me.
“Chiara.” Ciro’s hand closes around my wrist, firm, not rough. “Now.”
“Not without her.” I twist against his grip, trying to break it as I reach for her again.
“She’s not coming with us.”
“She is.” I pull harder, forcing her closer to me, my attention locked on her as she keeps backing away. “I’m not leaving her here.”
“It’s a family reunion,” Massimo says, his voice cutting clean through the room.
Ciro doesn’t move out of the way. If anything, he moves half a step closer, keeping himself between me and the door without making it obvious.
I turn. My hand slips against Ciro’s sleeve.
Massimo stands just inside the door, one hand still on it as it swings closed behind him, his attention fixed on her.
He looks at our mother. “Imagine our surprise when your mother announced you were alive on her deathbed.”
Her gaze doesn’t stay on him long. It cuts to me, sharp now, stripped of everything that was there a second ago.
“This is why you shouldn’t have come,” she says, low and controlled, already moving. “You never should have come here.”
She steps back again, creating distance, her focus looking past me, tracking exits, positions, and timing.
“You need to leave,” she says, not waiting for an answer. “Now.”
He steps forward, unhurried, closing the distance like no one is going to stop him.
“She’s not going anywhere.”
She holds where she is, her body angled toward him now, her hands empty at her sides.
Then his gaze turns to me. “We knew you could find her.”
My grip tightens at my side as I hold my ground.
She steps back again, the movement small but immediate.
“I didn’t know,” I say, turning to her.
Ciro steps in front of me, forcing Massimo to adjust his focus.
Massimo’s mouth curves slightly as he studies him. “You think you can stand there, and change what this is.”
Ciro doesn’t look at him. He steps closer, standing at my back, his presence firm and unyielding.
“I do.”