CHAPTER 17
MARCELLO
Palma di Montechiaro was quiet this time of year.
The ride had been thrilling—exhilarating.
The cypress trees swayed gently as the Ducati pulled into the gravel driveway of the Leopardi Estate.
Roxanne slid off the bike, her dress riding up just enough to make my jaw tighten—a reaction I didn’t bother hiding. She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did. Either way, I felt the shift. Like something between us was about to break open. Two children came running, arms wide.
“Uncle Marcello!”
I hugged them back, lifting each onto one arm as I walked towards the house. Roxanne turned to me, eyes narrowing.
“You didn’t tell me we were meeting your family,” she said, low, controlled—like she was trying not to panic at the idea.
“I’m not dressed appropriately,” she added, adjusting her dress.
I smirked, kissing her cheek. “You look beautiful.”
She pouted, then raised an eyebrow.
“Isn’t it a little early for introductions?” Then she winked.
My pulse kicked. Maybe it was too early. But I didn’t answer. I only motioned for her to follow.
Inside, the house was warm—stone walls, soft light, the scent of lemon and rosemary drifting from the kitchen. The children leapt from my arms and ran to the back of the house screaming:
“Uncle Marcello has a girlfriend!”
Roxanne flushed, caught off guard. We were greeted by my mother, Concetta, and my sister, Alessia.
“Figghiu miu caru, Marcello,” my mother said, hugging me tight.
“You’re looking perky and happy today.”
Then she turned to Roxanne. “Is it because of you, cara mia?”
Roxanne smiled, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. Heat crept up my neck—an old reflex I thought I’d buried. I’d stopped letting anyone close enough to touch the raw parts. But Roxanne, she didn’t even try. She just stood there, soft and unguarded, and something in me cracked.
Alessia caught it, nudged me with her elbow, eyebrows raised in a teasing dance. She smirked and hugged Roxanne.
“I’m Alessia, his little sister. And this is my husband—Antonio Leopardi.”
Roxanne shook his hand.
“Did I hear the roar of a bike?” Antonio asked.
“Joy ride,” I said, winking.
“I don’t remember the last time you rode.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I replied, looking at Roxanne. She blushed.
“Benvenuta,” my mother said softly, taking Roxanne’s hands in hers. “You must be tired. Come, sit.”
Roxanne smiled, caught a little off guard by the softness. Alessia watched from the doorway—sharp-eyed, composed, not unfriendly, just… observant.
We moved to the back of the house—the porch, where the children were playing, running around the trees. Wine was poured. The air thickened with things we weren’t ready to name.
Roxanne and I kept glancing at each other—quick, stolen looks that burned more than they explained. I wanted to reach for her. But I didn’t know what I’d say if she asked me to explain the look in my eyes.
Then the children burst in, laughing, chasing each other, a blur of limbs and joy.
They pulled Roxanne, beckoning her to chase them.
Little Sophie—just two—chased Roxanne in circles around the trees, giggling wildly.
Roxanne played along, pretending to be slow, letting the toddler catch her with triumphant squeals.
Laughter spilled from her lips, unfiltered and bright.
Something in my chest tightened, something I hadn’t felt since before everything fell apart.
Alessia tilted her head, watching. My mother turned to me, eyes gentle but firm.
“She’s the first girl you’ve brought here since Elaine.”
I stiffened and I gulped down my whiskey, half knowing my mother would bring this up.
“She’s on vacation. I’m showing her around Italy.”
“Just vacation?” Alessia echoed, one brow lifting in blatant disbelief.
“She’s an interior designer. From Mumbai.”
Antonio leaned forward. “Where’d you meet her?”
I smiled, remembering.
“Bumped into her at Dubai airport. Then again at the Salone Del Mobile in Milan.”
“How much does she know about you?”
“Only bits.”
“And you? Do you know about her?”
I hesitated. “Barely.”
“I can find out if you like,” Antonio offered.
I shook my head.
“No. I’ll ask her myself.”
But where would I begin? My mother reached for my hand. Held it.
“If she makes your heart dance, get to know her. And get rid of the pain you see in her eyes—even when she smiles.”
“It’s nothing, Mamma. I’m just showing her around Italy,” I said.
She gave me that look—the one only mothers have.
“I’m only speaking what I see.”
I looked towards Roxanne. Sophie sat on her lap, pointing out her eyes and nose. She looked happy, finally relaxed. And yet, something in her still felt distant—like she was borrowing joy, not living in it. It unsettled me.
“Dinner time,” Alessia called.
The children ran in, holding Roxanne’s hand. She shrugged as she walked past us.
The table was long, candlelit, and fragrant with grilled fish, lemon risotto, and wine that tasted like memory.
Roxanne sat beside me, posture relaxed but eyes alert, taking everything in.
Alessia tried to feed Sophie, but she squirmed and ran straight to Roxanne, arms lifted.
Roxanne looked at Alessia, almost asking permission.
Alessia nodded. Roxanne took the spoon and fed her gently, murmuring something soft that made Sophie settle instantly. Alessia watched, surprised.
“She likes you,” she said. “That’s rare. She doesn’t warm up to strangers. You’re good with children.”
Roxanne smiled, wiping Sophie’s mouth.
“I have a daughter,” she said quietly.
The air shifted. Not like a breeze. Like a fault line cracking beneath the table. I straightened, confused. The room fell silent.
“Her name is Kyra,” Roxanne continued, tugging on her necklace like it was the very air she breathed. “She’s four.”
She pulled out her phone and showed them a photo. Kyra—wide-eyed, curly-haired, with the same expressive pout as Roxanne’s. Everyone gasped.
“Oh my! She’s your mirror,” my mother whispered. “A splitting image.”
I frowned. The warmth in my chest turned sharp.
“You never told me,” I said—too soft to be anger, too tight to be neutral.
Roxanne met my gaze, calm but firm.
“You never asked. Plus, we haven’t really spoken a lot.”
I looked away, jaw tight. I didn’t know what to say. My chest felt heavy, like I’d swallowed something sharp that didn’t belong to me. I didn’t have the right to feel anything. But I did. Too much.
I looked at Roxanne again. She was now braiding Sophie’s hair, her fingers gentle, before the little girl ran off to play. Her smile was real. But something in her eyes still felt like a secret.
My mother, sensing the tension, tried to divert the topic.
“As a child, Marcello refused to sleep unless every door in the house was locked,” my mother said, smiling faintly. “He’d go room to room, checking them himself. Said it was his job.”
Roxanne blinked. “How old were you?”
“Seven,” Alessia laughed.
I shook my head. “Mamma—”
“He was convinced something terrible would happen if he didn’t,” she continued gently. “Even then, he carried the weight of the world like it was his responsibility.”
Antonio lifted his glass. “Some things never change.”
There was a pause. Then my mother added, softer now—
“Elaine used to say it made her feel safe… pace all’anima sua. That no matter how loud the world got, Marcello would always stand guard.”
The name settled between us like a familiar ghost— unwelcome, unchanged—hung in the air.
Elaine.
Roxanne instinctively reached for my hand.
She gave it a quiet squeeze. The contact steadied something deep in my chest—something that had tilted the moment Elaine’s name was spoken.
I looked at her, surprised by the quiet certainty in her touch.
I squeezed back. Everyone noticed. But no one spoke.
Because they felt it too. The shift. The ache.
The thing between us that hadn’t been named yet—but was already real.
There was history, and then there was chemistry between Roxanne and me. It was instinctive. Not forced. We didn’t know each other well, but we wanted to. And our time together was running out. She was leaving in two days.
The plates were cleared. Garden lights cast a soft amber glow across the porch. Roxanne had slipped off her sandals, her dress swaying as she moved with ease among the family.
I watched her from the edge of the room—half in shadow, wholly in awe. She moved like she belonged. And maybe that was the problem. Not in this world. My world. And yet, she fit. And that scared me more than Lorenzo ever could.
Matteo, about six, tugged at Roxanne’s hand.
“I want you to tell us a bedtime story,” he said, pulling her gently towards the stairs.
I watched her disappear down the hallway, her voice trailing behind like a lullaby stitched with laughter. The room felt quieter without her. Not empty—just waiting.
My mother turned to me, eyes gentle but firm.
“You didn’t know she had a child?”
“I barely know her,” I murmured—a truth that felt more like a lie.
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. I knew her laugh. Her silence. The way she touched me like she was trying to hold the shape of my damage.
She smiled. Soft. Knowing.
“But I can see the sparks fly. There’s something between you two… even if neither of you has noticed yet.”
“But you told her about Elaine,” Antonio said, suspicion creeping in.
I shook my head. “Briefly.”
“She’s nothing like the women you date,” Alessia said.
“I don’t date,” I snapped.
My mother swatted her arm.
“What? She’s… got substance.”
“She’s beautiful,” my mother added softly. “But there’s pain in her eyes.”
I hated how easily she’d seen it because I’d seen it too.
“So, is it special with her?” Alessia asked.
I exhaled.
“I don’t know,” I said, voice rough, uncertain, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
Like the words were fighting their way out.
“Madonna santa… è lei quella che ti ha rotto i muri?” my mother gasped.
(Is she the one who broke your walls?)
My throat tightened. I didn’t want to answer because I already knew. My mother saw it. Alessia saw it. Hell, even Antonio saw it. She’d broken something in me. And I wasn’t sure I wanted it fixed.
My mother reached for my hand again.
“I just want to see you happy,” she said with a soft smile.
“What’s stopping you from knowing more about her?”
“The fact that she’s leaving in two days and…” I trailed off.
“Chiedile di restare, figghiu miu,” she urged, softer than I’d ever heard her.
(Ask her to stay, my son.)
“What else is stopping you?” Alessia coaxed.
I hesitated. Then said it—flat, bitter, distaste thick in my mouth.
“Lorenzo.”
“Bedda Matri!” Alessia gasped.
My mother sighed, her head in her hands. Not angry. Just tired. Tired of watching me carry the weight alone. Tired of watching me build walls so high, even love couldn’t climb them.
Antonio leaned forward, voice low.
“He’s still circling, isn’t he?”
I nodded.
“He met with me in Milan, during the fair. He wants to run his dirty business through Port Nerra,” I spat.
“Quel pezzu di mmerda,” Antonio cursed.
(That piece of shit.)
“I refused,” I said. “He didn’t take it well.”
My mother looked up, her eyes sharper now.
“You think he’ll come after her?”
“He cornered her in Florence,” I admitted.
The memory still burned.
“She was shaken and disgusted. I didn’t tell her much—I don’t want her caught in this mess.”
The words tasted bitter. Like failure. Like I’d already let her down.
There was a heavy silence. The kind that settles between people who know too much and say too little.
Then Alessia spoke, her voice softer than I expected.
“She’s strong. Stronger than she looks. I saw it in the way she handled Sophie. In the way she looked at you when Elaine came up.”
My mother nodded. “She’s not afraid of your silence. That’s rare. You deserve softness, someone who can hold your hurt without flinching.”
I looked towards the hallway, where Roxanne’s voice floated down in fragments—soft, animated, telling stories to children who hung on every word.
She didn’t belong in this world. But somehow, she fit right in.
And somehow, that scared me more than Lorenzo ever could.
Alessia stood, gathering the toys scattered across the floor. She kissed my cheek, then retreated upstairs to check on the kids.
My mother and Antonio exchanged a glance. Without a word, they moved towards the study—where the real conversations always happened.
I followed.