12. Laney
LANEY
The car rolled through the palazzo gates just after dark.
I'd told myself the entire drive from Rome that I was coming back on my own terms. That I wasn't running.
That I'd made my point and now I was choosing to come home.
But the closer we got, the tighter my throat felt, and by the time the driver opened my door I was gripping my bag so hard my knuckles had gone white.
The palazzo looked the same. Of course it looked the same. What had I expected? That it would somehow reflect what I was feeling? That the windows would look different, or something would have shifted to mark the fact that everything had changed?
Nothing had changed. Nothing except me.
I thanked the driver and went inside. The entry hall was quiet, the marble cold under my shoes.
My footsteps echoed in the silence. Nobody came to meet me.
I stood there like an idiot for a moment, my chest tight, before I realized how ridiculous I was being.
Had I wanted a welcome? After I'd walked out and spent days in Rome refusing to answer anyone's calls except the one about Sofia?
I headed upstairs to our rooms, my bag heavy in my hand.
The house felt empty. It was probably just the hour—dinner would be over, Sofia in bed, Massimo wherever he went in the evenings when I wasn't there.
The family suites were on the other side of the palazzo, far enough away that I couldn't hear voices even when they were shouting.
Massimo had insisted on the distance when we married, and I'd been grateful for it then.
Now the walk felt longer than it should have. My pulse kicked up with every step. The hallway stretched ahead of me, lined with paintings I'd walked past a thousand times without really seeing. I was being ridiculous. This was my home. I'd only been gone a handful of days.
But it didn't feel like coming home. It felt like walking into someone else's house.
I pushed open the door to our rooms and stopped.
A silk scarf lay draped over the arm of the chair near the window. Deep red, expensive, the kind of thing you saw in magazines. Not mine. I didn't own anything that color.
I stared at it. My stomach flipped, sharp and immediate, like I'd stepped off a ledge I hadn't seen. I knew that scarf. I'd seen Vittoria wear it at least a dozen times, always knotted just so at her throat, like she'd stepped out of Vogue.
Why was it here?
The question sat in my chest, heavy and cold. I set my bag down carefully, like sudden movement might shatter something. Then I crossed the room slowly, my heart thudding hard against my ribs. The scarf didn't move. It just sat there, draped over the chair like it belonged.
Like she belonged.
Up close I could see the fabric was wrinkled slightly, as though someone had pulled it off in a hurry and forgotten it. One corner had slipped down toward the seat. The red was deep, almost burgundy in the low light. Silk. Expensive. The kind of thing Vittoria would wear without thinking twice.
God, what was she doing in here?
I reached out, then stopped. My hand hovered over the silk, fingers trembling.
I didn't want to touch it. Touching it would make it real, and if it was real I'd have to ask, and if I asked Massimo would look at me with that careful blank expression he used when he didn't want to answer something, and I'd know.
I'd know, and I wasn't sure I could survive knowing.
I pulled my hand back and wrapped my arms around myself instead.
Aurelio. I thought of Aurelio suddenly, the way you grab at anything when you're drowning.
Massimo's father had been failing for months.
Everyone knew it. The whole family walked around like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe he'd taken a turn while I was gone.
Maybe it had been bad. Maybe Vittoria had been here to help.
She was family, wasn't she? The Grecos and the Lombardos went back generations, all the way to some deal struck in blood and silence decades before I was born.
Of course she'd come if there was an emergency.
Of course Massimo would have called her.
She'd grown up in this world. She understood it in a way I never would.
That made sense. That was reasonable.
I told myself Aurelio had taken a turn. I told myself Vittoria had been here because the family needed her, because Massimo needed her, because I hadn't been here and someone had to step in. I told myself she'd been in our rooms because Massimo had needed to talk somewhere private.
I built the story piece by piece, laying brick after brick until it stood between me and the scarf like a wall.
It didn't matter that I hadn't heard anything about Aurelio. I'd been in Rome. I'd turned my phone off after the third call from Costanza. Maybe they'd tried to reach me. Maybe they hadn't wanted to worry me. Maybe it hadn't been that serious after all.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
God, I was pathetic.
I left the scarf where it was and turned away, my chest tight.
I could feel it behind me like a weight, pulling at my attention.
I forced myself to walk to the other side of the room, to the window that overlooked the courtyard.
The glass was cool under my palm when I pressed my hand against it.
Outside, the lights from the garden cast long shadows across the stone.
My chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it.
I was good at ignoring things. I'd had ten years of practice.
Ten years of smiling when Costanza made her little comments.
Ten years of pretending I didn't notice when Massimo's attention drifted during dinner.
Ten years of telling myself it was fine, it was all fine, this was just what marriage looked like in a family like his.
I'd barely stepped away from the window when the door opened behind me.
Massimo.
My whole body went taut. I didn't turn right away. I couldn't. I needed a second to school my face into something that wouldn't give me away.
When I finally turned, he was standing just inside the threshold, his hand still on the knob.
For a second we just looked at each other.
He was in shirtsleeves, the collar open, his tie gone.
His jacket was missing too. He looked tired.
There were lines at the corners of his eyes I didn't remember being so deep, and his hair was mussed like he'd been running his hands through it.
He looked like he'd had a long few days too.
"You're back," he said.
"I'm back."
The silence stretched between us, thick and awkward.
I wanted to ask about Aurelio. I wanted to ask about the scarf.
I wanted to ask a hundred things, but my throat had gone tight and nothing would come out.
If I asked, he'd answer, and his answer would either be the truth or it wouldn't, and I wasn't sure which option scared me more.
He stepped toward me. Just one step, tentative, like he wasn't sure I'd let him. "Laney?—"
"I'm tired," I said quickly. Too quickly. The words came out sharp, defensive. "It was a long drive."
He nodded slowly, but he didn't move away.
His gaze traveled over me, slow and deliberate, like he was checking to make sure I was really there.
My skin prickled under the attention. God, I hated how aware of him I always was.
Even now, even when I was angry and hurt and confused, my body responded to him like it had a mind of its own.
"I'm glad you came home," he said quietly.
Something in his voice cracked me open a little. I looked at him, really looked, and saw it—the relief, stark and unguarded, written across his face. He'd been worried. He'd thought maybe I wouldn't come back at all. The realization hit me like a punch to the chest.
The tightness there shifted, turned into something else. Something that ached.
"I told you I would," I said. My voice came out softer than I meant it to.
"I know." He paused. His jaw worked, like he was trying to find the right words and couldn't. "But I wasn't sure you meant it. I wasn't sure I'd given you enough reason to."
That startled me. Massimo didn't do vulnerability. He didn't do uncertainty. He was the one who always knew what to do, who always had the answer, who kept his composure no matter what. Seeing him like this, raw and uncertain, made my throat go tight all over again.
"I meant it," I said.
He nodded, but he still didn't look convinced.
He took another step toward me, then another, crossing the room with that deliberate grace he'd always had.
My heart hammered, loud enough I was sure he could hear it.
He stopped in front of me, close enough I could feel the heat off him.
Close enough I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
God, he was tall. I'd forgotten—no, that was a lie. I hadn't forgotten. I'd just spent three days in Rome trying very hard not to think about it.
"Laney," he said again, and this time it wasn't a question. It was something else. A plea, maybe. Or a prayer.
He reached for me. His hand came up slow, careful, like I might bolt if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed the side of my face, feather-light, and my breath caught.
His thumb traced the line of my cheekbone, and I sucked in a breath I didn't mean to take.
My whole body went taut, every nerve ending suddenly awake.
I should step back. I should say something. I should ask about the scarf, about Vittoria, about why he looked at Nate the way he did in Rome—like he wanted to put his fist through a wall—about all of it.
I didn't.
Instead I leaned into his touch, just slightly, helpless against the pull of him. His eyes darkened, the gold flecks in the brown catching the light.
"Can I—" he started, then stopped. He swallowed hard. "Can I kiss you?"
He never asked. Massimo Lombardo never asked for anything. He just took, confident and sure, because he'd never had a reason to doubt he'd be welcome. But he was asking now, and the vulnerability in it hit me like whiplash.
I nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak.
He kissed me.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, almost desperate, his mouth hard against mine and his hands coming up to frame my face like he needed to hold me there, needed to make sure I was real and solid and his.
I made a sound against his lips, something small and broken, and he swallowed it.
His fingers slid into my hair, tipping my head back, and I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt to keep from falling.
God, I'd missed this. I'd missed him. I'd missed the feel of his hands on me, the taste of him, the way he could make everything else disappear with just a touch.
It didn't matter that I was angry. It didn't matter that I was hurt.
Right now, with his mouth on mine and his body pressed against me, none of it mattered.
He walked me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed.
I sat hard, breathless, and he followed me down without breaking the kiss.
His weight settled over me, solid and sure, and my pulse skyrocketed.
His hands were everywhere—my face, my throat, the curve of my waist—like he was trying to memorize me all over again, like he'd forgotten what I felt like and needed to relearn every inch.
"Massimo," I breathed, and his name came out like a prayer.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing ragged. "Tell me to stop," he said, his voice rough and low. "If you don't want this, if you need me to stop, Laney, you tell me right now and I will."
I should. I should tell him to stop. I should make him talk to me first, make him explain the scarf and Vittoria and why he never came to the dig and why he looked so relieved when I said I was coming home. I should make him see me the way I needed to be seen.
But I didn't want to stop. I wanted this. I wanted him. I wanted to believe we could fix it, that maybe if we just held on tight enough everything would be okay. That maybe this—us, together, still reaching for each other even when everything was falling apart—was enough.
"Don't stop," I whispered.
Something in his expression cracked. Relief, maybe, or gratitude, or something deeper I didn't have a name for.
He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper, pouring something into it that felt like an apology and a promise all at once.
I arced into him, my hands finding his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer.
His shirt was in the way. Everything was in the way.
I yanked at the fabric, frustrated, and he helped me, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside.
His skin was hot under my palms, the muscle shifting as he moved above me.
He said my name again, soft and reverent, and I felt it all the way down to my bones.
We came together like we were trying to erase the distance between us, trying to get back to something we'd lost without even realizing it was gone.
His hands were gentle even when mine weren't. He touched me like I was something precious, something he couldn't afford to break, and I wanted to cry from it.
From the tenderness. From the fact that he could still touch me like this, like I mattered, even when I wasn't sure he saw me at all.
I didn't cry, though. I just held on, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my face pressed against his neck. He smelled like cedar and something clean, familiar. Like home. Like the man I'd fallen in love with ten years ago, before everything got so complicated.
When it was over we lay tangled together, my head on his chest, his arm around me holding me close.
His heartbeat was strong and steady under my ear, a rhythm I'd know anywhere.
I focused on it, let it anchor me. The room was dark now, just the faint glow from the garden lamps outside filtering through the curtains and painting stripes across the ceiling.
He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. His fingers traced slow patterns on my shoulder, idle and soothing, like he used to do when we first got married and sleep came easier.
"I love you," he said into the quiet.
Tightness gripped my throat. "I love you too."
I meant it. God help me, I meant it. Even with the scarf still sitting on the chair across the room. Even with all the questions I hadn't asked. Even with everything.
He pulled me closer, and I let him. His warmth seeped into me, chasing away the cold that had settled in my chest the moment I saw that red silk.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe love could be enough, even when everything else was a mess, even when I wasn't sure he understood what I needed or saw what I'd sacrificed.
Maybe if we just kept choosing each other, kept reaching for each other like this when it would have been easier to let go, we could make it work.
Maybe it could mend.