30. Laney
LANEY
The church smelled like incense and old stone.
I stood beside Massimo in the third row at Padre Ignazio's church in the city, Sofia between us with her hand in mine.
The casket sat at the front draped in white cloth, and flowers I didn't recognize lined the altar in careful arrangements someone had been paid too much to make.
Aurelio had been the head of the family for forty years and the church was full.
I recognized half the faces from family dinners and christenings and weddings over the last decade.
The other half I didn't know and didn't want to.
Costanza sat in the front row in black, a veil over her face that didn't quite hide her expression. Enzo sat on one side of her and Rosaria on the other. Vittoria sat beside Enzo, her profile sharp and her hands folded in her lap like she belonged there, like she'd earned the seat.
My stomach tightened. God, the woman had nerve.
Massimo's hand found mine and squeezed. I squeezed back, grateful for the anchor.
The service was long and full of words about legacy and family and the turning of generations.
Padre Ignazio's voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling and I didn't listen to most of it.
I watched the light come through the stained glass windows and land on the floor in patterns of blue and red and gold that shifted every time someone moved.
Sofia leaned against my side and I put my arm around her, feeling the warmth of her small body against mine.
Massimo didn't let go of my hand the entire time.
When it was over people stood and the room filled with the rustle of fabric and the low murmur of voices.
Groups formed near the back of the church, clusters of men in dark suits talking in tones that were just quiet enough to seem respectful.
I stayed close to Massimo. Rosaria appeared at my elbow and touched my shoulder briefly, a gesture of solidarity that steadied me more than I wanted to admit.
Enzo was near the door already, surrounded by three men in expensive suits who looked like they wanted answers he didn't have.
His posture was stiff and his gestures were too sharp, too defensive.
He looked like someone trying to hold water in his hands and realizing too late that it was slipping through his fingers.
Vittoria crossed the room toward us. Her heels clicked on the stone floor and her expression was smooth and controlled, the kind of calm that came from practice. She stopped directly in front of me, ignoring Massimo entirely like he wasn't even there.
"I'm surprised you came," she said. Her voice was low enough that only we could hear, pitched just for us. "This is family business, after all."
My pulse kicked up and heat flooded my face. Family business. Like I hadn't been married into this family for ten years. Like I hadn't given up everything to be here. I'll be there at three, he'd told her once. He'd chosen her over me that day.
Before I could answer, Massimo stepped forward. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The room went quiet around us like someone had thrown a switch.
"My wife belongs here," he said. Every word was clear and deliberate, loud enough for everyone to hear. "She is my family. If you can't see that, Vittoria, then you're not paying attention. And if you think?—"
I touched his arm and he stopped mid-sentence, his jaw tight. He looked down at me and I shook my head once. I've got this.
The whole room was watching now. Costanza had turned from where she stood near the casket, her face unreadable behind the veil. Enzo paused mid-conversation, his mouth half open. Rosaria stayed beside me, close enough that I could feel her presence like a wall at my back, solid and unmovable.
I looked at Vittoria. "Can I speak to you alone?"
Her eyes flicked to Massimo, then back to me. She hesitated, then gave a small nod.
I walked toward the side door that led to the small courtyard behind the church.
My hands were shaking and I curled them into fists so no one would see.
Vittoria followed, her heels clicking behind me on the stone.
The door closed with a heavy thud and the noise from inside became muffled and distant, like we'd stepped into a different world.
The courtyard was empty except for a stone bench against one wall and a few potted plants that needed watering. The air smelled like dust and something green I couldn't name. Sunlight slanted across the pavement in a stripe that divided the space in half.
I turned to face her.
She spoke first. "You think you've won something."
"I'm not here to argue with you," I said. My voice was steadier than I felt.
"Then what are you here for, Laney?" She crossed her arms, her posture defensive. "To gloat? To make a scene at a funeral?"
I took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm the flutter in my chest that felt like panic or anger or maybe both. "You can have the estate, the palazzo, and the family name. But you can't have him. He's mine."
Her face went pale. The color drained out of it like I'd hit her, and for a moment she just stared at me without speaking. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked like she wanted to say something cutting, something that would put me back in my place, but nothing came out.
Then she turned on her heel and walked back inside without another word, the door slamming behind her hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stood there for a second, my hands still shaking. Well, that's done. My heart was pounding and my throat felt tight but I'd said it and she'd heard it and now it was over. I went back inside.
The room was still full but the energy had shifted. Massimo was standing near Rosaria, his arms crossed and his expression calm but watchful, like he was waiting for something. When he saw me he straightened slightly, a question in his eyes. I nodded once. It's fine. He relaxed.
Costanza was watching me from across the room.
She looked smaller than I remembered, or maybe I was just seeing her differently now that Aurelio was gone and the hierarchy had shifted.
Enzo was beside her again, talking in low urgent tones to someone I didn't recognize. Vittoria was nowhere to be seen.
I walked over to Costanza. Massimo came with me but stayed a step behind, silent and present. Rosaria appeared at my other side, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
Costanza looked at me, then at Massimo, then back at me. She didn't speak. She just waited, her hands clasped in front of her and her expression carefully blank.
"You'll see Sofia twice a year," I said.
I kept my voice steady and my eyes on hers, refusing to look away first. "Supervised.
At a place we choose. You won't ask about our life and you won't offer advice about how we raise her.
If you try to undermine me or go around me to Massimo, the visits stop. Permanently."
Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "Laney?—"
"Those are the terms," I said.
She looked at Massimo like she was waiting for him to step in, to soften it or negotiate or tell me I was being unreasonable.
He said nothing. He just stood there beside me, silent and solid, and his silence was louder than any words he could have given her.
It said I'm with my wife in a way that left no room for argument.
Costanza's gaze came back to me. For a long moment she just stood there, her jaw tight and her hands still clasped in front of her like she was praying. Then she nodded once, a small sharp movement that looked like it cost her something. "I understand."
"Good," I said.
Rosaria squeezed my hand briefly, a quick pulse of support. Massimo stayed exactly where he was, a solid wall at my back.
Across the room Enzo was surrounded now by five or six men, all of them talking at once in voices that were getting louder.
He looked overwhelmed and out of his depth, like a man trying to bail out a sinking boat with a teaspoon and realizing it wasn't going to be enough.
One of the men raised his voice and jabbed a finger toward Enzo's chest. Enzo's face flushed dark red and he gestured sharply, saying something I couldn't hear over the noise.
The man shook his head in disgust and walked away.
Two others followed him. Enzo looked after them with an expression that was equal parts anger and panic, like he was watching his authority crumble in real time.
The disarray was already showing. He wasn't ready and everyone in the room knew it. Give it six months and half the family's alliances would be in shambles.
Massimo touched my elbow. "Let's go."
We collected Sofia from where she'd been sitting quietly with one of Rosaria's granddaughters, drawing something on a piece of paper someone had given her.
She took my hand without complaint and we walked out into the sunlight together.
The air outside was warm and smelled like exhaust and fresh bread from the bakery down the street.
I took a deep breath and felt something in my chest loosen, like I'd been holding it tight for hours and could finally let go.
Massimo opened the car door for me. Before I got in he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small rectangular shape wrapped in brown paper. He held it out to me.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Open it."
I unwrapped it carefully and the paper fell away to reveal the photograph.
The one of us at the dig, both of us muddy and grinning like idiots in front of the main trench.
We looked young in it, younger than I remembered being.
I hadn't seen it in years — not since Massimo had taken it down from the study and I'd assumed he'd thrown it away.
"I had it reframed," he said.
I looked closer. The old frame had been cheap plastic, cracked at one corner and yellowing with age. The new one was simple wood with clean lines, nothing ornamental or showy. But that wasn't what he meant and I knew it.
The photograph itself had been trimmed. In the original version the edge of the palazzo's east wing had been visible in the background, a slice of stone wall and iron gate that marked the dig as Lombardo land, as theirs and not mine.
Now it was gone. The photograph showed only the dig, the trench, the two of us standing shoulder to shoulder covered in dirt and smiling.
My throat went tight and my eyes stung. I looked up at him and he met my gaze, steady and certain, waiting for me to understand.
"Thank you," I said. My voice came out rough.
He nodded. "It's yours, Laney. It always was."
I got in the car and held the photograph in my lap the whole way back.
We drove to the dig house, the road winding out of the city and into the hills.
The landscape rolled past in shades of gold and green, familiar and beautiful in the late afternoon light.
Sofia fell asleep in the back seat with her head against the window and her drawing crumpled in one hand.
Massimo drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the console between us where I could reach it if I wanted to. I did.
That night we sat at the table in the dig house with my site maps spread out in front of us.
I'd been updating the records from the last two weeks of work and there was a new trench showing promising stratigraphy in the northeast corner.
I explained the layers to Massimo and what I thought they meant, tracing the lines on the map with one finger.
There was a boundary wall that might tie back to the Roman period if the pottery sequence held up, and a post hole that suggested a structure we hadn't found yet.
Massimo leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, and studied the map like it mattered.
He asked about the pottery sequence and whether I'd sent samples for analysis yet.
He asked about the radiocarbon dates and when I expected results.
He asked if I thought the wall fragment tied to the structure we'd found last year on the south edge.
I answered each question and he listened, his eyes on mine, present and engaged in a way that made my chest ache with something I couldn't quite name. It felt like being seen. When I finished explaining he sat back and looked at the map again, then at me.
"When do you think you'll publish?" he asked.
"Next spring, maybe. If the excavation holds and the dates come back clean."
"Under your name?"
"Yes. Just mine."
He nodded slowly, a small satisfied smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Good. That's how it should be."
We didn't sit up late that night. There was no whiskey, no sitting alone in the dark staring at nothing.
We went to bed together and he stayed there beside me, his breathing steady and even in the quiet.
When I woke once in the middle of the night, startled by some dream I couldn't remember, he was still there with one arm thrown over my waist. He didn't pull away.
The next morning we packed. There wasn't much — we'd been living light since I'd left the palazzo months ago — but it still took time to gather everything from the dig house and make sure we hadn't forgotten anything important.
My papers and site records went into archive boxes that Massimo carried out to the car.
Sofia's clothes and toys went into her small suitcase.
I did one last walk through the house, checking the rooms and cabinets, my footsteps echoing on the bare floors.
The dig itself sat quiet in the early morning light. I stood at the edge of the main trench and looked down at the layers of earth and stone we'd uncovered over the years. Centuries of history, brought to light one careful brush stroke at a time. My work. My name on every page of the site record.
Massimo appeared beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. Sofia was already in the car, buckled in and waiting patiently with a book in her lap. He didn't say anything, just stood there with me for a moment looking at the dig and everything it represented.
Then he took my hand and we walked back to the car together.
We drove north toward the ferry terminal, the road winding through the hills and then dropping down toward the coast. Sicily fell away behind us, golden and hazy in the distance, beautiful and poisonous in equal measure.
Sofia woke up and chattered from the back seat about the ferry and whether we'd see dolphins and what Rome would be like.
Massimo drove steadily, his hand finding mine whenever the road straightened out enough to let him.
I looked out the window at the landscape rolling past and felt something settle in my chest, something that had been restless and uncertain for months. We were leaving. Not running, not hiding, not defeated. Just going forward together to whatever came next.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, that felt like enough.