CHAPTER 47
ROXANNE
It had been a week.
One whole week since the last text from Marcello came through. Every call I made went straight to voicemail. I was anxious. Jumpy. Every day. Every call, every ring of the doorbell had me searching—holding my breath, hoping it was him.
I read his text over and over, imagining him whispering it to me. My skin remembered the warmth of his breath, even if my arms had forgotten his weight.
“Has he called yet?” my mother asked.
I bit the inside of my cheek and shook my head as tears slipped down.
I hated how small my voice felt when I said nothing.
I looked out at the people walking below—some exercising, some walking their dogs, just going about their evening from my terrace.
I stared without intent, holding my teacup tighter and prayed he was okay.
At dinner that night, Kyra spoke.
“I miss Uncle M, mummy.”
Her voice was small, but it cracked something open inside me. I held her hand, rubbing her knuckles.
“Me too, baby.” I kissed her forehead. “Me too.”
I heard pounding on the door.
It was 6 a.m. Who could it be so early? The milkman wouldn’t be here until seven.
My mother opened her bedroom door. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. You go back to bed—I’ll see.”
The banging continued.
“Coming,” I shouted.
I rubbed my eyes and opened the door. Santino brushed past me, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he demanded.
“It’s on silent,” I replied, trying to comprehend what was happening.
He helped himself to some water and motioned for me to sit beside him on the sofa. My mother stood behind us, silent.
“What happened to you?” I asked, looking at the sling on his arm.
“You should see the other guy,” he joked.
But his voice was hoarse. Like he hadn’t laughed in days.
“Has Marcello come with you?” I asked, voice faint.
My heart pounded. A weight settled over me.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “No.”
“Roxy, I need you to listen carefully.”
“No…” I croaked. “No… no…”
I started pacing, clutching my head as tears streamed down my face.
“He promised…”
My breath hitched. A gasp ripped out of me. My chest tightened like a fist around my ribs. I clawed at my throat, trying to breathe, trying to stay upright, trying not to shatter. The room blurred and my thoughts scattered. I couldn’t find the ground.
“Roxy. Breathe,” he said, gripping my shoulder.
Air thinned around me. My lids got heavy. My knees buckled. The world tilted and I collapsed.
I woke up on the living room couch, drenched in sweat. My mother hovered nearby, pressing a cold cloth to my forehead. Kyra was sitting on the terrace with Vihaan—curious but oblivious.
Santino sat across from me, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He came over and crouched beside me.
Brushed a stray strand from my face, then rubbed my cheek with the back of his fingers. His touch was gentle. Hesitant at first. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to care this much.
“Hey,” he smiled. “For a second, you scared me—little Volpi.”
I sat up slowly and took the water he offered.
“You okay?” he asked as I stood.
“Uh-huh. Need some air.”
I walked to the terrace and stood by the parapet, holding the glass of water.
“Is he…”
My throat went dry, despite the water. Words wouldn’t come. I sucked in a breath and stared into the distance. I couldn’t look at Santino.
“No,” he said. “He’s alive.”
His voice cracked on the last word. I turned to him, biting the inside of my cheek. Tears burned behind my eyes. I hugged him, squeezing him, holding onto him to anchor myself. I cried into his chest. He rubbed my back and kissed the top of my head.
“There was an incident. He’s injured,” he said, pausing.
“He’s stable now. But it was close.”
“Where… where is he?” I asked through tears.
“In a hospital in Kuala Lumpur. He can come home next week.”
Vihaan came and hugged me. “Shh. It’ll be okay.”
I broke down in his arms again. Tears poured out like a flood I’d been holding back for years. I clung to him like a child. Kyra crawled into my lap, and I held her tight.
Vihaan let me cry. He didn’t interrupt. He just sat there—quiet, respectful.
“Go! He needs you.”
I looked at Vihaan. He gave a courageous nod and kissed my forehead.
Later, in the dead of night, we took a flight to Kuala Lumpur.
I lay my head on Santino’s shoulder and linked my fingers with his.
I didn’t trust my body to hold itself together without something to anchor me.
His presence steadied me. With him around, Marcello felt closer, somehow. He made me feel safe.
He rubbed his battered fingers over my knuckles. Then he reached into his sweatshirt.
“He wanted me to give this to you.”
I put my hand over his pocket.
“Don’t. Let him give whatever it is to me.”
“Get some sleep.” He leaned his forehead onto mine.
“Looks like you need it more,” I said, gently tracing the scrape on his forehead.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked at me with something quiet in his eyes. Just care. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return. I kissed his cheek briefly. Just gratitude. A thank-you, carved in touch.
A way to say: I see you. I’m grateful.
“Thank you for protecting him,” I whispered.
Santino nodded, his jaw tight.
“Always,” he said.
His voice was low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who meant it with every scar. He gently brushed his knuckles along my cheek just enough to say I’m here, prompting me to lean into his arm with a sigh of relief before I drifted off to sleep on his shoulder. Safe. Held. Whole.
We arrived in Kuala Lumpur in the morning and headed straight to the hospital. I stopped just outside Marcello’s room, heart pounding so fast that everything sounded like a buzz.
I rubbed my fingers together, half expecting him to be hooked up to machines, half expecting him to be sitting up, waiting for me.
I hesitated at the threshold, afraid of what I’d see. Afraid of what I couldn’t unsee. My fingers trembled on the doorframe. I wasn’t ready, but I couldn’t stay away. Santino came up behind me and rubbed my shoulder, sensing my hesitation. He opened the door, and I gasped.
Marcello had tubes coming out of him. A urine bag. Another from his side, draining what looked like dark blood. He was hooked to an IV drip and heart monitor. His bed was partially upright.
I approached his bed and gently traced my fingers over his. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at me, smiling.
“You came.”
I laughed through tears and smacked his chest.
“You don’t get to tell me you love me and disappear.”
“I’m sorry, amore. Won’t happen again. I’m too old for this shit anyway.”
I laughed and kissed him. He sat up in bed, groaning. Santino handed him a small leather box, then left us alone.
“I’ve been carrying this around since I arrived. It’s been in our family for generations,” he said, holding my hand and rubbing my fingers.
“I was my nonna’s.”
“Marcello...”
My heart pounded.
Was he going to propose? Here in this hospital bed?
“I wanted to wait for the perfect moment. But moments are always fleeting for us.”
He opened the box. I gasped.
“I’ve modified it a bit to suit your style.”
“It’s beautiful. But…” my throat tightened around the rest.
“I’m not asking for marriage.”
His voice cracked slightly, like he wasn’t sure he deserved the future he was asking for.
“Not yet. I’m asking permission to let me in—to be part of your life, Kyra’s life.
I don’t care about vows or ceremonies or what the world thinks love should look like.
I care about you. About waking up beside you and knowing I get to earn your trust every day.
To be your companion. For now. For always. ”
“Yes,” I said, eyes glassy.
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
He slipped the ring onto my finger—a gold band with ornate filigree, delicate and old-world. At its centre sat a deep emerald, flanked by two small diamonds.
I turned my hand, letting the glimmer catch the light. It felt like a vow whispered across generations. It felt like a promise.
Like something ancient and new at once. Like belonging. Like home. I kissed him deep and pressed my hand to his chest.
“Umm… gentle now, amore. We’ll have our time. Soon.”
I smiled, then whispered—barely audible, barely brave:
“I love you.”
Marcello froze. His breath caught like the words had knocked the wind out of him. He looked stunned as though he hadn’t dared to believe I’d ever say it back. Like love, from me, was a miracle he didn’t think he deserved.
“I’ve loved you since Milan. Since that first dinner when you held me close, when that drunk stumbled too near, and you didn’t flinch.
“Since you looked at me like I was something holy. Like I was worth protecting. I didn’t say it then. I couldn’t. I didn’t know my own heart yet. But I’ve loved you ever since.”
He gasped. I kept going.
“I’ve loved you through every fight. Every silence. Every time you walked away and came back bleeding. I’ve loved you through the worst of you. And the best of you.”
I sobbed, “And I didn’t tell you before because—there are parts of me that are still broken. Parts I don’t know how to heal. Parts I don’t want you to ever see. And I feel…”
My breath caught between a sob.
“…if you ever see the fractured parts of me, I’m scared you won’t love me the same.”
Marcello closed his eyes. A tear slipped down from his eye.
“There’s nothing in this world that will stop me from loving you. No scar. No silence. No shadow. And I’m not here to fix you.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it.
“I love you for you—for every piece, every ache, every truth you carry. I want to spend the rest of my life showing you all the ways I’ll learn to love you, without conditions, without timelines.”
He held my hand in his and looked at me with glassy eyes.
“And if you love me even half as much as I love you… That’s enough. That’s everything.”
We held each other and cried. He sniffed and spoke.
“Say it again,” he whispered. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
“I think I do,” I said, brushing my thumb across his jaw—like I could soothe the wreckage in him with touch alone.
Then he smiled, slow and wrecked.
“I love you, Marci.”
He kissed me again.
“Let’s go home.”
We stayed in Kuala Lumpur for two days. Long enough for the doctors to clear him. Not long enough for my heart to unclench.
That week of not knowing where he was or how he was doing had set panic so deep in my bones, I’d braced myself to never see him again. Grief had curled into my spine like a second skeleton. But I was grateful it didn’t stay.
As we stepped into the apartment, Kyra ran to him—arms flung wide, eyes bright, voice cracking with joy. He dropped to his knees, wincing, and held her like she was the only thing keeping him upright.
We sat in the living room. My mother and Vihaan sat opposite us. Marcello looked smaller somehow—less like the man who’d once intrigued me, more like the man who’d let me see him bleed.
He didn’t rehearse a speech. He just looked them in the eye. Unmasked. Unarmed. Unafraid. He laced his hand with mine, circling his thumb—like he needed it to anchor him to the moment.
“I’ve made mistakes,” he said. “But I love her. I love Kyra. I want to be part of their lives—yours too, if you’ll have me.”
He looked at me and said, “Roxanne is the light I didn’t know I was searching for. And with your blessing, I’d like to build something real. To be hers. In every way that matters. In every way I never knew I could be.”
My mother studied him for a long time. Then walked over and cupped his face like she was weighing his soul.
“If you ever make her walk through fire again,” she said, “I’ll drag you back through it myself.”
Marcello nodded. “I know.”
She kissed his cheek. “Welcome to the family.”
Vihaan didn’t say anything, just offered a brotherly hug. Quick and brief.
Later that night, after the house had quieted, I found Marcello in Kyra’s room. She was asleep—curled up beside him, one hand resting on his chest like she’d claimed him.
He looked at me over her head, eyes soft, voice low.
“She wouldn’t let go,” he whispered.
I smiled and walked over, brushing Kyra’s hair off her forehead.
“She missed you. We all did.”
Marcello reached for my hand and pulled me gently onto the bed beside them. I lay down, facing him. Our fingers twined over Kyra’s back—a quiet bridge between past and future.
He looked at the ring on my finger, then at me—like he couldn’t believe I was real.
“You’ve made me the happiest man alive.”
He kissed my knuckles, then my temple. I pressed my hand to his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath my palm—proof that he was still here. Still mine.
The city hummed outside—cars, voices, life. But inside this room, everything was still and sacred. Like time had bowed to love.
“I’ll never stop loving you,” he said.
He leaned in, lips grazing my ear.
“I’ll love you the way only a patient man can… and want you like a starving man at the edge of madness. Slowly. Endlessly.”
He nipped my ear.
“Until being mine feels as natural as breathing—like your body remembers me more than it remembers its own pulse—until every touch that wasn’t mine fades like it never mattered.”
I bit my lower lip, heat blooming in my chest.
“Is that a promise?” I murmured, kissing him slow.
His hand tightened on my hip—just a little possessive, just a little desperate.
“It’s a vow, amore. One you’ll feel in every breath, every sigh, every shiver… because I’ll never be done loving you.”
“Slow down, Mr. Vitale.” I smiled. “Let’s get you healed first.”
He kissed me again, and we lay there in silence, staring at each other. Kyra stirred between us, sighed, and settled again. Her tiny fingers curled around mine—like she was stitching us together.
I closed my eyes, listening to the rhythm of his heart. The hush of the city. The quiet of being whole again.
We didn’t need vows. We didn’t need a ceremony. We had this. This night. This love.
And if ruin felt like this—soft, sacred, slow—it'll always be the ruin I chose.
And in that quiet, tangled moment between breath and heartbeat—I knew. This was finally home.