Chapter Thirty-six
RONAN
Seven Years Earlier
ITALY
I’d never felt time move so painfully slow. My hands trembled as I took a sip of scotch, the burn doing nothing to numb the ache. I looked at Lucio, who sat quietly across from me, eyes dark and intense, but there was a crack in his usually stoic demeanor.
“We need to change the date,” I said, my voice sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.
Lucio raised an eyebrow, confused. “What?” he asked, his face scrunching in confusion.
“Nina’s birthday,” I snapped, my chest tightening. “I’m not burying our parents and little sister on my fucking girlfriend’s birthday.”
Lucio went silent, like he was processing what I’d said. Then, slowly, he nodded. But it was too late. The dam I’d been holding back broke. The tears rushed forward, and I didn’t have a fucking clue how to stop them.
I was choking on air, drowning in grief, drowning in the weight of their deaths. It crashed down on me. My breath came in ragged gasps as the sobs wracked my body, the helplessness too much.
“Fuck... fuck, Lucio, I—” I choked on my words, my chest heaving as the tears poured out. I’d never let myself cry like that, never had shown that kind of weakness. But it was overwhelming.
Lucio’s chair scraped against the floor, and suddenly, his arms were around me. He held me, not saying a word, keeping me there. His strength, his warmth, the presence of someone who was going through the same thing, was all I could hold onto.
His arms tightened around me, pulling me in, holding me like I was the only thing keeping him together, too. The steady thrum of his heartbeat against my ear was the only thing I could focus on.
I couldn’t breathe without gasping, but my brother’s grip never faltered. His hands were steady, firm, like he was trying to anchor me in a world that felt like it was sinking.
“Mio fratello,” he murmured softly, his voice so calm, so controlled, and yet I heard the edge in it—the break that came from years of silence and the weight of our shared pain. “You gotta breathe, fratello. Respirare e basta.66”
I clutched on to his shirt, my fingers digging into the fabric like it was the last thing holding me together. I was suffocating, but he wouldn’t let me fall. He wouldn’t let me break, even though everything inside me felt like it was shattering.
“Lucio, I—” My throat tightened again, and the words turned to nothing more than a sob, an empty sound that hurt to make.
“We’re grieving together,” he whispered, the words slipping past his lips like a promise. “Ti ho preso.67”
He didn’t pull away, didn’t make me hurry up, and didn’t ask me to stop the breakdown. My brother held me like he was afraid that if he let go, I’d slip away into the nothingness where nothing felt real.
I knew I’d been a shit boyfriend lately.
There was no getting around it. I’d been drowning in my own pain, too consumed by the chaos of loss to be the man Nina deserved.
But it was her birthday. And I wasn’t going to let this day pass without showing her I loved her and, despite the grief, that I was still here, trying.
The apartment was quiet when I got to work. She was out, and I had just enough time to make this right.
I started with the decorations—soft lights strung along the walls, candles flickering on the table, and a rack of clothes I knew she’d been eyeing, arranged like a fashion display.
I couldn’t pretend to understand fashion the way she did, but I knew enough to know it made her happy.
I wanted her to walk in and feel something, anything, to let her know she was loved.
The kitchen came next. I remembered the way she lit up when I cooked spaghetti alla vongole, which was one of her favorite meals.
I tried my best, but it was a disaster. The pasta was overcooked, the sauce was slightly burnt, and the kitchen looked like a war zone.
My frustration rose. It was like everything I touched fell apart these days, but I couldn’t give up.
I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and kept moving. I had one more thing to do.
I grabbed the sewing machine I had custom-ordered for her and laid it on the table, along with a pile of high-quality fabrics—silk, denim, all of it perfect for the designs she loved.
My fingers worked quickly, pulling thread through fabric as I stitched together “I love you” in delicate, messy letters.
I wasn’t a tailor, but I wanted her to see the effort and the love that went into this.
She finally came home, and the door clicked shut behind her. I heard her footsteps as she stepped inside, pausing, taking in the scene. My chest tightened, waiting for her reaction.
She walked in slowly, her eyes scanning the apartment. She stopped when she saw the rack of clothes, the sewing machine, and the table covered in the little details I knew she’d appreciate. Her lips parted, and her gaze flickered back to me.
“Ronan, baby,” she whispered, her voice soft but laced with something I couldn’t quite place. Relief, perhaps?
“Buon compleanno, amore mia,” I said, my voice a little hoarse as I took a step toward her.68
“Thank you, baby.” She stood there, her eyes shining, and then her face shifted, concern crossing her features. “Ro, what’s wrong?”
I couldn’t stop it. The flood of emotion hit me all at once. “I’m sorry, Nina,” I said, my voice breaking. “ I’ve been lifeless... a fucking shadow of the man you deserve.” The tears came fast now, and I didn’t fight them. “I’m sorry for not being there. For not—”
She stepped toward me, wrapping her arms around me gently. “Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t apologize.”
“Promise you won’t leave me,” she said, the desperation in her voice making my heart splinter.
I took a breath, swallowing the lump in my throat, my hand shaking as I reached out for her. I couldn’t promise her that—not with the shit we’d been through, not with the mess inside me. But I knew what I could promise.
“I can promise I’ll always come back to you,” I said, and the words felt like a vow, even if it wasn’t the one she was asking for.
She exhaled, nodding, holding me a little tighter. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we’d be okay.
We moved past the tension into something softer. Nina’s smile was a breath of fresh air, her joy filling the room. She ran her fingers over the fabrics, eyes lighting up at the sewing machine. When she looked at me, there was love in her gaze.
She looked at me, her lips curling into a grin. “I love everything, Ronan. You really went all out.” Her voice was teasing, but there was sincerity there too. She was happy, and that’s all that mattered.
“You deserve it,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady, but I could feel the rawness beneath it. She deserved more. Always.
She moved to the table, running her fingers across the clothes rack and picking out a jacket she’d been talking about for weeks. Holding it up, she flashed me a grin. “What do you think?”
I smiled, my heart pounding. “You look perfect, as always.”
She laughed, light and sweet, and for a moment, I let go of the guilt that had been gnawing at me. Tonight, I wanted to be the man she saw, the man she wanted, and the one she deserved.
We sat down to eat spaghetti, even if it was a disaster. She ate it like it was the best thing ever, and that was enough.
We moved on to cake, simple but perfect for the night. She eyed me playfully. “Did you actually bake this yourself?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted, “but it’s all yours, birthday girl.”
I pulled the cake toward us, setting it in front of her, the candles flickering in the soft glow of the room. Her face lit up as she took in the sight of it, and I swear, in that moment, I felt the weight of everything we’d been through melt away.
“Make a wish,” I said, my voice low.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and I watched her, trying to hold onto the moment, to the woman I loved.
She blew out the candles, her breath steady, her eyes still locked on me.
“Thank you, bello,69” she said, her hand reaching out to touch mine. Her fingers were warm, delicate against my skin. “This means more than you know.”
“I want you to be happy, Nina. I’ll do whatever it takes.” The words came out with a rawness I hadn’t expected, but they felt right.
She smiled, a small, tender curve of her lips. “I know, and I want you to be happy, too.”
I squeezed her hand, trying to keep the darkness from creeping back in. I felt like maybe I wasn’t lost after all.