45. Chapter 45
Chapter forty-five
Alex
After admitting our ages, the conversation flowed effortlessly into a trip down memory lane.
We laughed about growing up during the rise of iPods and LimeWire, and reminisced about fashion trends we’d once thought were the height of style—low-rise jeans, Ugg boots, and all the questionable choices that came with them.
“Tell me something else about you,” Lina says then. “Anything. I’d like to get to know you better.”
I don’t deflect. I don’t joke.
“Tell me more about your childhood,” she adds gently. “What your mother was like.”
I consider her for a moment, then nod. I take a seat across from her with my plate.
“My childhood,” I begin, searching for the right words, “started out… magical.”
She stills, listening intently.
“My mother was a bright light,” I continue. “Always smiling. Always gentle. She was happy, as if joy was her default setting.” A slight grin appears on my face. “She was a homemaker most of her life. Loved to cook. Loved to bake. The kitchen was her domain.”
Lina smiles softly at that.
“She came to Queens as a little girl with her parents,” I go on. “Only child. Very sheltered.” My jaw tightens slightly. “She met my father at church when she was twenty. She was still living at home, unmarried.”
I draw in a breath.
“My father…made an offer to her parents. Money. Security. A way out.” I glance at Lina. “My mother didn’t care about the money. She cared about him.”
There’s a pause before I add, “Her father wasn’t a good man.”
Lina’s expression shifts—gentle, not prying.
“He tried to cross lines a father never should with a daughter,” I say carefully. “She fought him off every time. So she wanted out. Desperately.”
I push my eggs around my plate, memory tightening in my chest.
“My father bought her a house. Three bedrooms. Two baths. Right there in Queens.” I smirk at the memory.
“She knew what the arrangement was. That he wouldn’t always be there. That he had a life elsewhere.”
Lina’s eyes never leave my face.
“She accepted being the other woman,” I say. “Because it meant safety. Freedom. A life away from her father.” I pause. “But it wasn’t cold or transactional. They loved each other. Deeply.”
I swallow.
“When I was little, I didn’t know any of that. I only thought my dad worked in Italy. That he came home when he could.” I let out a quiet breath. “I adored him. Worshipped him, really.”
“When did you realize?” Lina asks.
“When I was twelve,” I answer. “Old enough to understand what wasn’t being said. Old enough to see the gaps.”
My eyes find hers.
“But when I was a kid? Those years were good. Full of warmth. My mother made sure of that.”
The kitchen is quiet for a moment.
Lina reaches out, covering my hand with hers. Not pity or sympathy. Just presence.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says.
I nod once, more affected than I expected.
I’ve lived my life guarded and compartmentalized. It feels strangely grounding—to be seen like this.
There’s a moment where I consider stopping.
Letting the story end where it is. Where it’s still soft around the edges. Where my past feels distant enough not to bleed into the present.
But Lina didn’t ask for fragments. She asked to know me.
“There’s more I must tell you, Lina,” I say.
Her hand tightens around mine—not urging, not pulling away. Just there.
“My father,” I continue, “doesn’t simply own a vineyard.”
She tilts her head slightly, listening.
“Yes, the wine business is real. Renowned. Old money. But it’s not the whole picture.” I breathe in. “He owns strip clubs. Nightclubs. Other businesses—here in the States. Some of them are legitimate. Some of them are…convenient.”
Her expression stays steady.
“They’re used as cover,” I say. “For moving money. Cleaning it. Expanding influence.”
I don’t dress it up. There’s no point.
“And with that kind of power,” I add, “comes enemies. People who want territory. Influence and leverage.”
Lina’s grip on my hand doesn’t loosen.
“My mother,” I say, voice tightening despite myself, “was raped and murdered to send a message to my father.”
The words land like they always do—final and unforgiving.
“They knew he loved her,” I continue. “So they hurt her to hurt him.”
Silence fills the kitchen.
“I was in Boston when it happened,” I say. “College internship. I wasn’t there for her when she needed my protection.”
Lina’s other hand comes up to cover her mouth, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“My father wanted me in the business,” I go on. “Not as the heir—that was always my brother, Nico. But he wanted me close. Watching his back. Family loyalty.”
I turn my head. “But after my mother died…no one showed up for us. No protection. No justice. Just silence.”
My attention drifts to our joined hands.
“That was the moment I knew I wanted no part of that life.”
“So I left,” I say. “I changed my name. Changed everything.”
I meet her eyes again, fully now. “My real name is Alessandro Moretti.”
She doesn’t flinch.
“I now go by Alex Lombardi,” I finish. “Because the man I was born as came with expectations—and a future I refuse to inherit.”
The room is quiet, sunlight pooling on the floor like nothing monumental has been said.
“I’m telling you this,” I say, “because you asked me to be honest. And because whatever we are—whatever this becomes—you deserve to know who you’re choosing.”
I wait. I don’t fill the silence. I let her have it.
Because this is the part where people usually leave. At least that’s what I would expect.
And I need to know—before I give her any more of myself—whether she’s still here.
She doesn’t speak right away.
Lina sits with everything I’ve told her, turning it over carefully instead of recoiling from it. I can almost see the gears moving—this isn’t fear. It’s assessment.
Then she looks up. “When was the last time you had contact with your family?” she asks.
It’s not accusatory. It’s practical.
“Do they know you’re still alive?” she adds.
I nod once. “Those are the right questions.”
I inhale. “I haven’t had direct contact with them in years. Not since I changed my name. To them, Alessandro Moretti disappeared.”
“Disappeared how?” she asks.
“Enough that it was assumed I was dead,” I answer. “Or at least gone in a manner that didn’t invite searching.”
There was no body to identify. No confirmation. Just silence.
Her brow furrows. “And no one came looking?”
“They looked,” I say. “At first. But my father had bigger fires to put out. Power struggles. Enemies. Damage control. I became…inconvenient.”
That lands harder than I expect.
“So they don’t know you’re alive?” she asks.
“No, not for certain,” I confirm.
I pause, then add, “Reese has helped make sure it stays that way.”
Her eyes flick up. “How?”
“He monitors everything tied to my former identity,” I explain. “Financial records. Travel logs. Digital traces. Anything that could be connected back to me gets flagged. If something pops up that could lead to me, he erases it.”
“That sounds…constant,” she says.
“It is,” I admit. “But it works.”
“And your brother?” she asks. “Nico?”
“No contact. Not since I left. If he’s curious, he’s kept it quiet.”
She nods, taking a moment to process it.
“So as far as they’re concerned,” she says, “you’re a ghost.”
“Yes.”
“And you intend to keep it that way?”
“Yes.”
She studies me again—not searching for weakness, but mapping reality.
“I’m asking because I need to know what this means for me,” she says. “For us. For what could happen.”
“I know,” I reply. “That’s why I’m telling you everything.”
I lean forward slightly. “No one from my past is looking for me. And no one is on my trail. Reese would know immediately if that changed.”
“And if it did?” she asks.
“Then I’d handle it,” I say without hesitation.
She doesn’t challenge that. She nods firmly.
“Okay,” she says.
No panic. No dramatics. Just acceptance paired with awareness.
She’s not asking these questions because she’s afraid.
She’s asking because she’s choosing whether she’s willing to stand beside me.
And as I watch her—steady, thoughtful, unwilling to be na?ve. I remember I need to confess something else.
I clear my throat, fully aware of how still the room feels.