13. Giovanni
— ? —
Giovanni
I follow her because I can’t do anything else.
The car she gets into is a small gray sedan, unremarkable, the kind of vehicle that’s designed to disappear into traffic.
But I’ve been tracking people for twenty years, and desperation has made me sharper than I’ve ever been. I stay three cars back, then two, then four, adjusting as the streets wind through neighborhoods I know intimately and she navigates like a stranger.
She’s not heading toward any of the places I might have expected - not the hotels, not the tourist areas, not any address my people have been watching. She’s going somewhere specific, somewhere she seems to know by the confidence of each turn.
Somewhere she feels safe.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
My wife feels safe in places I’ve never seen, with people I’ve never met. The woman I swore to protect has built an entire life around protecting herself from the world I represent.
The car ahead of me slows, then turns into a residential street lined with modest houses and bare trees just starting to bud with spring growth. I hang back, watching as she pulls into a driveway halfway down the block.
The house is small, well-kept, anonymous in the way that safe houses are supposed to be.
She gets out of the car and practically runs to the front door.
I’m out of my vehicle before I can think better of it, my feet carrying me across the pavement toward her, toward whatever truth is waiting behind that door.
“Cielo.”
She freezes with her hand on the doorknob, and when she turns, her face is a study in fear and fury.
“You followed me.”
“Of course I followed you.” I’m close enough now to see the rapid pulse in her throat, the way her fingers have gone white around the doorknob. “Did you think I’d just let you disappear again?”
“I told you I’d text. I told you we’d talk.”
“And I told you I wasn’t letting you out of my sight.” I take another step closer. “Who lives in this house, Cielo? Who are you so desperate to get back to?”
“It’s none of your-”
“It is my business. Everything about you is my business.” The words pour out of me, raw and ragged. “So yes, I followed you. And I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on.”
“Giovanni, please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Please, just let me go in alone. Let me - prepare them.”
“Prepare who?”
Before she can answer, the door opens from the inside.
The woman who appears in the doorway is tall, elegant, with the sharp eyes of someone who’s seen too much to be easily surprised. I don’t recognize her, but she clearly recognizes me - her face goes tight, protective, as she steps partially in front of Cielo.
“So,” she says, her voice carrying a French accent. “The husband finally caught up.”
“Delphine.” Cielo’s hand catches her friend’s arm. “It’s okay. He’s not - he wouldn’t hurt me.”
“No?” Delphine’s eyes never leave my face. “Then why did you spend five years hiding from him?”
“I was hiding from his world. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Delphine crosses her arms. “Because from where I’m standing, they look remarkably similar.”
“Delphine, please-”
“No, let her talk.” I keep my voice level, though it costs me. “She clearly has opinions about me.”
“I have opinions about men who let their wives get attacked in supposedly safe houses,” Delphine says coolly. “I have opinions about men whose wives feel safer running pregnant and bleeding into the night than staying to ask for help.”
“Pregnant?”
The word lands like a grenade. Delphine’s face changes - she realizes she’s said something she shouldn’t have. Cielo makes a small sound, almost a whimper, and tries to push past her into the house.
“Cielo.” I catch her arm. “What does she mean, pregnant?”
“Let go of me.”
“What does she mean?”
“Giovanni-”
“You were pregnant?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “When you ran - you were carrying-”
“Mamma?”
The voice is small, sleepy, coming from somewhere inside the house. I watch Cielo’s entire body transform - the fear and fury draining away, replaced by something softer, something fierce and protective.
“Gio.” She wrenches free of my grip and pushes past Delphine. “Gio, piccolo, what are you doing up?”
Gio.
The name hits me like a physical blow. Short for Giorgio - my father’s name, the name I told Cielo I wanted to give our children someday.
I’m moving before I realize it, pushing through the doorway, following the sound of her voice into a modest living room where-
Where a small boy is standing in pajamas covered with rocket ships, rubbing his eyes with one hand and clutching a stuffed astronaut with the other. He’s maybe four, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and dark eyes that blink up at me with sleepy curiosity.
Dark eyes that I’ve seen in the mirror every day of my life.
“Mamma, who’s the big man?” His voice is high and clear.
Cielo’s arms wrap around him, pulling him close. “This is someone Mamma knows from a long time ago, piccolo.”
“From before?”
“Yes. From before.”
The boy’s eyes turn back to me, studying my face with an intensity that’s eerily familiar. I’ve seen that look in my own reflection, that careful assessment.
“You look angry,” he says matter-of-factly. “Like when Mamma stubs her toe and says the bad word.”
Despite everything - the shock, the fury, the earthquake destroying my understanding of the past five years - something in my chest cracks open.
“I’m not angry at you,” I manage.
“Then who are you angry at?”
“Gio.” Cielo’s voice is strained. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“But I want to know who the big man is.” His head tilts - my head tilt, exactly - and his brow furrows. “Mamma said my papa couldn’t come visit because it wasn’t safe. But maybe now it’s safe?”
“Gio-”
“Is he my papa?” The boy pulls away from his mother and takes a step toward me. “You look like the picture Mamma keeps in her special box. She doesn’t know I looked, but I did.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
“Mamma says my papa is a good man who lives in a dangerous place,” he continues, “and someday when it’s safe, I’ll meet him. Is it safe now? Is that why you came?”
Behind me, I hear Delphine move, hear her say something to Cielo in French that I don’t catch. But I can’t look away from this child - this boy with my eyes and my chin and his mother’s stubborn courage.
“Cielo.” My voice comes out rough. “Is he-”
“Yes.” Her eyes meet mine over our son’s head, defiant and terrified. “His name is Giorgio. He’s four years old. And he’s yours.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. The boy looks between us with the particular alertness of children who sense something important happening.
“Mamma?” His voice has gone uncertain now. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, piccolo.” Cielo’s arms tighten around him. “No, you didn’t say anything wrong.”
“Then why are you crying?”
She is crying, I realize. Tears streaming down her face, silent and unstoppable. And I’m just standing here, frozen, trying to process that I have a son. A son who likes rocket ships and knows about pictures and has been waiting his whole life to meet me.
“Gio.” I crouch down, ignoring the protest from my knees, bringing myself to his eye level. “I’m not angry at you. I promise.”
“Then why does Mamma look scared?”
“Because…” I glance at Cielo, at Delphine still hovering protectively in the doorway, at this whole impossible situation. “Because grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I’m very, very glad to meet you.”
His face brightens cautiously. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Do you know about stars? I want to be an astronaut. Mamma says there are lots of stars here in Italy.”
“I know a little about stars. I could learn more.”
“I could teach you.” He says it with the absolute confidence of a four-year-old expert. “I know all the planets. Want to hear them?”
“I would love to hear them.”
“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune.” He ticks them off on his fingers, then frowns. “Some people say Pluto is a planet but it’s actually a dwarf planet. That’s different.”
“That’s very impressive.”
“Mamma taught me.” He beams at her, then back at me. “She’s really smart about space stuff.”
“She’s smart about everything.”
Cielo makes a choked sound. I don’t look at her. I can’t, or I’ll lose whatever fragile composure I’m maintaining.
“Gio.” Delphine’s voice cuts through the moment. “It’s very late, mon petit. Why don’t you come with Zia Delphine and let the grown-ups talk?”
“But I want to stay.” He looks at me with those devastating dark eyes. “I want to know if-” He stops, uncertain, then seems to gather his courage. “Are you Signor Giovanni?”