62. Chapter 62
Chapter sixty-two
Alex
The second I see Lina step away from the kitchen, my heart slams into my ribs.
Not now. Please. Not now.
I give her the signal. A subtle shake of my head. A silent walk away. She catches it—of course she does—but it’s already too late. My father has followed my line of sight, and once he sees her, he does what he’s always done best. He takes control of the room.
He rises smoothly, commanding attention without ever raising his voice. The shop quiets in that instinctive way people do around men like him—men who don’t ask to be noticed, who simply are. Turning away now would be rude. Suspicious. Impossible.
Lina does what she’s always done. She adapts.
My father greets her with respect, genuine enough that if you didn’t know him, you’d believe every word. He praises the bakery. The atmosphere. The discipline it takes to build something from nothing. He’s always respected hard work—people who earn their keep instead of inheriting it.
I watch Lina closely.
I see the shift in her posture. The polite smile. The professional warmth. She plays the game flawlessly, thanking him, crediting Val, talking about community and customers and long days that make it all worth it. She’s gracious. Grounded and calm. God, she’s good.
She even tries to extract herself cleanly. “Well,” she says lightly, gesturing toward the kitchen, “I should get back—“
And then my father says it.
“Oh, Lina,” he adds, as if it’s an afterthought, his voice smooth and deliberate. “If you could spare me a few more minutes, I would very much like to get to know the woman who’s seeing my son a little more.”
The air leaves the room. A truth spoken aloud that can’t be taken back. I can tell without peeking at her that she sensed it too. But I do.
Her hand goes instinctively to her stomach, fingers pressing there like she’s steadying herself—as if something inside her dropped.
That moment—the realization—lands between us like a weight.
She knows who he is now.
He didn’t come for focaccia. He came for me. And now—whether I want it or not—he’s pulled Lina directly into my past.
My father gestures lightly, as if he’s asking for coffee instead of privacy. “Perhaps we could speak somewhere quieter.”
Lina doesn’t hesitate. She points to the empty classroom near the back—the one she uses for events and book clubs—and leads the way.
The door closes behind us with a soft click that feels far too final.
The room is too small for the history standing in it. I don’t bother easing into anything.
“What are you really doing here?” I ask flatly.
No pleasantries. No performance. He doesn’t seem offended. Or even surprised. If anything, he seems…pleased. Like I’ve confirmed something for him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, smiling gently. “You vanished, Alessandro. Do you have any idea what that does to a family?”
There it is. My real name, spoken like a possession.
“You disappeared,” he continues, tone calm, wounded in a way that feels rehearsed. “No word. No trace. Do you know how that looked? How that felt?”
I give a humorless breath. “You didn’t look very hard.”
His eyes sharpen for half a second—hinting to me I hit something true—then soften again.
“You were always impulsive,” he says. “But you are still my son. And Nico’s brother. You have responsibilities.”
Lina shifts beside me. She’s listening, absorbing every word, piecing things together faster than my father realizes.
“You’re needed,” he goes on. “By your family. By your brother. Nico needs you at his side, my son. That was always the plan.”
“The plan?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “Blood does not absolve itself simply because you walk away.”
Then his gaze drifts over me—taking in the man I’ve become. The life I chose. The name I wear.
“And this,” he adds, voice still even, still controlled, “this Alex Lombardi nonsense…it’s disappointing.“ He gives a small shake of his head, like I’ve made a childish mistake.
“Alessandro Moretti does not simply stop existing,“ he says. “That name means something. This—“ he gestures vaguely at me, at my life, ”—is a slap in the face. To me. To everything you come from.”
He says it calmly. As if I bruised him.
I feel Lina’s hand brush my arm—grounding. She’s steady, but I can tell this has landed hard. On both of us.
My father looks between us now, something calculating flickering behind his eyes.
“But,” he says smoothly, “we will talk. You and I. There is time.”
No, there isn’t. I will never give him my time again.
“No,” I say.
The word lands hard. Final.
“I put that life behind me a long time ago. I moved on. Alex is who I am now.“ I don’t raise my voice. It’s not necessary for me to. “And I will never be Alessandro Moretti again.”
Something cracks. It’s not anger or fury but rather something sad…
My father lets out a weary breath, like a man bracing himself. “I know you’re angry,” he says, measured. “About your mother.”
Lina stiffens beside me.
“I never stopped loving her,” he continues. “When they hurt her, it destroyed me. I mourned her. I raged. I made them pay—first in Italy. I dismantled everyone who could have touched her.”
His eyes shine, but I’ve seen this before. Grief polished into justification.
“When I made it to Queens to finish it,” he says in a low murmur, “you were already gone.”
I laugh then. A short, hollow sound.
“She died long before that,” I say.
He whips his head my way.
“She died of heartbreak,” I continue. “The day you stopped coming. The day you left us exposed.”
My voice tightens despite myself. “You didn’t just leave her alone—you left her defenseless. You think enemies killed her? No. You did. Slowly. Every year you chose distance over responsibility.”
The room goes silent.
“Our home was taken from us,” I say. “The money stopped coming, and everything collapsed. She worked herself into the ground. She lost the light you claim to have loved.”
My father opens his mouth, but I don’t let him interrupt.
“She waited for you,” I say. “She believed in you. And when you disappeared, she didn’t wrath. She didn’t retaliate. She withered.”
I feel Lina’s fingers curl tighter into my sleeve.
“You can’t reshape that,” I finish. “You can’t turn regret into redemption and call it love.”
My father looks…old. No longer the untouchable man I once remembered. Just a man who made a choice and lived too long with the consequences.
“I won’t go back,” I tell him evenly. “Not for you. Not for the name. That life cost me everything.”
I glance down at Lina—steady, strong, here.
“I already chose my family.”
That’s when I catch sight of it. It’s almost imperceptible—the iron in him giving way. His shoulders sink. The hard line of his voice dissolves into something quieter. In that moment, my father looks fragile.
“Alessandro,” he says softly—in Italian, the way he used to when it mattered. “Sto morendo, figlio mio.”