Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Ezio
I shouldn't have come.
But the second I heard she was sick, I couldn't sit still.
I needed to see for myself that she was okay.
The thought hit me when I parked across the street, but I still killed the engine, still pushed open the door, still stood on that quiet street before Juliet could jump out of the back seat, watching the woman sitting on the steps.
She didn't see me.
Head down, hands wrapped around a coffee cup, probably cold by now. She just sat there, staring at the lawn, an expression on her face I'd never seen before. Not guarded, not detached. Something she only showed when she thought no one was looking.
Then I saw the kid.
Middle of the lawn, a little boy with brown curls and a blue jacket, head tilted back, chasing dandelion fluff. When he ran, his legs pumped fast, hitting the edge of the lawn before spinning around and shouting something up at Olivia. She lifted her face from the steps, and her mouth moved.
That smile.
The thing I'd been searching for on her face for so long—it just appeared. Because of that kid.
Juliet had already rounded the hood and taken off. I called after her, too late—she was already standing at the edge of the lawn, head cocked, staring at the boy.
I walked over.
Olivia spotted me when I reached the steps.
She stood too fast, nearly dropped the cup—caught it, steadied herself with a breath, and that smile vanished just as quick, so quick I almost thought I'd imagined it.
"Why are you here?"
Not a question.
"Juliet wanted to see you," I said. "You said you were sick. She was worried."
A lie. Juliet asked this morning if we could visit Miss Vivi. I said yes. Simple as that. But Olivia didn't need to know I'd said yes first.
She looked at me for a second, expression flat, said nothing.
Then the boy from the lawn ran over.
He stopped beside Olivia, looked up at me. Those eyes were green—not ordinary green, but deep, like something pressed down on them, weighted with color.
My heart kicked.
"Mommy," he said, "who's that?"
Olivia placed her hand on his shoulder, subtle but deliberate. I knew what that gesture meant.
"Juliet's dad," she said. "Call him Mr. Visconti."
I kept my voice casual, level. "This your kid?"
"Yes. From my ex-husband."
Ex-husband.
The word drove in like a thorn, straight into my chest.
She'd had an ex-husband.
In these five years, she'd been married, had a kid, built a family with another man.
Jealousy flared like fire, burning up from my gut into my throat, scorching until I could barely speak.
But I didn't explode.
Couldn't. Not now. And I had no right.
I took a deep breath, shoved that fire down, shifted my gaze to the boy.
He peeked out from behind Olivia, voice polite. "Hello, sir."
I looked down at him.
He had Olivia's eyes, but heavier brow bones, a different jawline. He looked up at me without fear, open, like a kid used to sizing up strangers.
Juliet leaned in. "What's your name?"
"Leo," he said. "Leo Adrian."
Adrian.
He had her last name.
The realization slammed into my chest.
"Leo," I repeated. "Good name."
Juliet stood beside me, head tilted, studying Leo.
"You're Leo?" she said. "I'm Juliet!"
"Juliet?" Leo echoed, then looked at Olivia. "Mommy, is she the one you—"
"Leo." Olivia cut him off, voice tight.
Leo shut his mouth.
But I'd heard.
She'd told Leo about Juliet.
"You wanna play?" Juliet pointed at the lawn. "I can teach you how to make flower crowns!"
Leo glanced at Olivia. She nodded.
"Go ahead."
The two kids ran toward the lawn, Juliet leading, Leo following. Juliet ran fast, pigtails bouncing behind her. Leo trailed after, little hand clutching her dress, afraid of losing her.
Their laughter tangled together, echoing across the lawn.
I stood there, watching them.
"They're alike," I said.
Olivia's body tensed.
"I mean," I said, "both energetic."
She didn't respond.
The kids had already run off. Juliet pulled Leo by the hand toward the far end of the lawn, pointing at a dandelion. Leo crouched down, carefully plucked it, held it to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and blew hard. White fluff scattered, drifting into a small cloud in the sunlight.
"Wow!" Juliet tilted her head back, watching the fluff float higher. "So pretty!"
Leo grinned proudly, already hunting for the next dandelion.
I stood there watching them. From certain angles, Leo's running silhouette gave me a flash of something—blond hair lifting in the wind, legs pumping fast, like a little animal just learning to run.
I crushed that thought before it fully formed.
Too fast. So fast I wasn't even sure what the thought was.
Just something vague pressing on my chest, heavy, stuck, wouldn't disperse.
"You were sick?" I turned to Olivia.
Her expression shifted. "What?"
"You texted me. Said you were sick."
"I..." Her voice caught. "I'm better now."
"Good," I said. "Maybe we should go inside."
Olivia turned to look at me, that familiar wariness in her eyes.
"Do you need something?"
"No," I said. "But Juliet hasn't had lunch yet."
Another lie. Juliet ate two muffins at ten this morning, half a sandwich in the car at noon. She wasn't hungry at all. But standing here, watching Olivia's eyes trying to push me away, I suddenly wanted to stay.
Not for any particular reason. Just wanted to stay, sit in her space, watch how she poured water, how she talked, how she lived through an ordinary afternoon.
Five years. In my memory, she existed only in limited fragments—on the club stage, that hotel night, in my hallway, outside the hospital room. I'd been trying to piece those fragments together for so long. They never formed a complete picture of her.
"Juliet," I called.
Juliet popped her head out from the hedge.
"Daddy!"
"You hungry?"
She thought for a second. "Yes."
Then she turned those eyes on Olivia, lashes fluttering. "Vivi, can I eat at your house?"
I glanced at Olivia. Her expression tightened, lips pressed into a line.
"Juliet," she started.
"Vivi, please!" Juliet let go of my hand, ran over, and hugged her leg, looking up with eyes no one could refuse. "Just this once, okay? I want to eat with Leo."
Leo ran over too, stood in front of Olivia, looking up, green eyes full of hope.
"Mommy, can we?"
Olivia looked at Juliet, then at Leo, finally at me. Then let out a heavy breath.
"Fine," she said.
Juliet cheered, pulling Leo toward the house. The two kids charged up the steps, pushed through the door, laughter spilling into the hallway.
Olivia stood there, watching their backs. Her expression softened.
"Leo's very well-behaved," I said.
She didn't look at me. "Thank you."
"I mean it," I said. "He has good manners."
"He's always been good." A hint of pride in her voice. She turned and walked inside.
I followed.
The kitchen wasn't large, but it was clean. Olivia pulled ingredients from the fridge and started prepping lunch. When she tied on her apron, her fingers paused at the strings behind her back, fumbling several times before getting it tied.
"Need help?" I asked.
"No."
"I can—"
"Just sit."
Her voice was hard, but her movements grew rushed, fingers grasping blindly at her lower back, more frantic, less effective. The strings slipped from her fingertips, hung loose, swaying at her side.
I walked over.
She didn't turn around, but her back stiffened.
I picked up the strings. When my fingers brushed her back, her breathing changed—light, short.
I crossed the strings, wrapped them around her waist, pulled them snug. Her waist was narrow—so narrow that when the strings came around, I barely had to pull to bring them to the front. I could feel her body heat through that thin shirt, warm, slightly burning.
Tied. One knot, not too loose, not too tight.
"Done," I said.
She didn't turn. "Thanks."
Flat voice, but her ears had turned red. From the lobes all the way to the tips, clear under the kitchen lights.
I stepped back, giving her space.
She stood there, hand on the counter, motionless. After a few seconds, she picked up the knife and went back to slicing tomatoes. The blade hit the cutting board with a rhythm more erratic than before, unsteady—one cut went crooked, the blade sliding off the edge with a harsh scrape.
I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching her back.
She didn't turn around, but her ears stayed red.
Laughter from the dining room—Juliet and Leo discussing something, voices loud, animated, seemed to be debating whose cat was fatter.
Olivia's hand paused. She tilted her head, listening, and her mouth curved slightly.
"Olivia," I said.
She didn't turn. "What?"
"Nothing."
She kept slicing tomatoes. The blade on the board, steady now—one cut, another, another.
Lunch was pasta. When Olivia brought the plates to the table, Juliet was already seated, legs swinging, eyes locked on the noodles. Leo sat across from her, spread his napkin on his lap—neat and careful—then looked up at me.
"Sir, aren't you eating?"
"I am." I sat down beside him.
He nodded and started twirling pasta on his fork. Practiced movements, clean work, no sauce splattered on the table. He ate quietly, no talking, fork silent against the plate.
Olivia sat across from me, head down, pushing pasta around her plate with her fork. Not eating, just moving it.
"Vivi, why aren't you eating?" Juliet asked.
"I am." She took a small bite, put it in her mouth.
Leo pushed the bell peppers to the side of his plate, piling them into a little mountain. Olivia looked up.
"Leo."
"Mommy, I don't like bell peppers."
"You still have to eat them. Bell peppers have vitamins."
Leo wrinkled his nose, stabbed a piece with his fork, held it near his mouth, hesitated forever, just wouldn't put it in.
"I don't like bell peppers either," I said.
Olivia looked up at me, surprised.
"Daddy doesn't eat them either!" Juliet bounced up like she'd discovered a great secret. "So it's normal that Leo doesn't eat bell peppers! Because—"
"Juliet," I interrupted. "Sit down and eat."