Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Amanda
Istand on the porch steps of my childhood home, staring at the pristine white door with its polished brass knocker. My hand finds Valentino's automatically. A reflex I've developed over the past months. His fingers close around mine, steady and warm.
"You sure about this?" His voice carries that familiar protective edge, the one that surfaces whenever I'm about to walk into something that might hurt me.
I squeeze his hand. "No. But I'm doing it anyway."
The truth is, I never expected Mom to try. After our conversation in Rome I figured that would be it. Radio silence. The relief of finally cutting a cord that had been fraying for twenty-five years.
Instead, she started calling. She asked about my work, about Valentino, about whether I was happy.
She remembered details from previous calls.
She sent me a photo of a sunset from her hotel in Bangkok with the message thought you'd like this instead of her usual travel shots meant to impress her social media followers.
Small things. Tiny gestures that shouldn't mean so much but somehow do.
"She's been trying," I say, more to myself than to Valentino. "For three months now."
"Doesn't erase twenty-five years of not trying."
His bluntness should sting, but it doesn't. It's one of the things I love about him. He never sugarcoats reality to make me feel better. He just states facts and lets me decide what to do with them.
"I know." I turn to face him, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes scan the street even here in suburban Chicago. Always watching, always ready. "But I think I was always waiting for them to try. Even when I told myself I wasn't."
He studies my face with that intensity that used to unnerve me and now feels like coming home. "What do you need from me in there?"
This. This quiet question that assumes I'm capable of knowing what I need and tells me he'll provide it without making me beg. Six months ago, I would have deflected with humor or insisted I was fine. Now I actually think about his question.
"Just... be you. Don't pretend to be charmed by them if they're being awful. I need to know you see what I see."
His mouth quirks up at one corner. "When have I ever pretended to be charmed by anyone?"
"Fair point." I laugh despite my nerves. "Also, if my dad starts talking about golf or the stock market, you have permission to shut him down."
"Looking forward to it."
The front door opens before we reach it. Mom stands there in a cream cashmere sweater and perfectly pressed slacks, her blonde hair styled in that effortless way that requires two hours and a professional. But her smile is different. Tentative. Like she's not sure it will be welcomed.
"Amanda. You look beautiful." Her eyes move to Valentino, and I watch her take him in. "Mr. Conti. Thank you for coming."
"Mrs. White." He doesn't smile, but his voice is respectful. Formal in that old-world way that makes me want to drag him upstairs and mess up his perfectly knotted tie.
Focus, Amanda.
"Where's Dad?" I ask as we follow her into the foyer.
"His flight was delayed. He'll be here soon." She twists her wedding ring, a gesture I remember from childhood. She only did it when she was nervous. "I made reservations at that new Italian place downtown, but I thought we could have drinks here first. Get acquainted."
I catch Valentino's eye. Get acquainted. Like he's some college boyfriend I brought home for the first time instead of my husband.
"That sounds nice," I say.
We settle in the living room. The formal one that was always off-limits when I was a kid. Mom pours wine from a bottle that probably costs more than most people spend on groceries in a month. Her hands shake slightly as she hands me a glass.
"So," she says, perching on the edge of the sofa like she might need to flee. "Tell me about the wedding."
I glance at Valentino, who's studying the room with the same attention he gives potential threat assessments. Taking note of exits, sight lines, anything that could be used as a weapon. My mother's Waterford crystal collection would make excellent projectiles.
"It was perfect," I say. "Small. Just us and a witness in this tiny church near the Spanish Steps."
"No photographer?" The question slips out before she can stop it, and I see her flinch at her own reaction.
The old me would have bristled. Would have pointed out that she never showed up for anything worth photographing anyway, so why start caring now? But I'm learning to recognize when someone is fighting their own patterns.
"We have a few photos. Chiara took some with my phone." I pull up the pictures, and Mom leans forward to look. Her expression softens as she scrolls through them. Me in my sundress, Valentino in his shirtsleeves, both of us grinning like idiots in front of a priest who barely spoke English.
"You look so happy," she says quietly. "Both of you."
"We are."
"I wish..." She stops herself, shaking her head. "I'm glad you're happy. That's what matters."
The front door opens, and Dad's voice booms through the house. "Sorry I'm late! Traffic from O'Hare was murder."
Dad appears in the doorway, still pulling off his coat. He's grayer than I remember, softer around the middle. When he sees Valentino, his expression shifts to that hearty businessman persona he uses for client meetings.
"You must be the husband!" He strides over with his hand extended. "Richard White. Good to finally meet you."
Valentino stands, and I'm reminded again how he towers over most men. How his handshake probably communicates more than words ever could. Dad's smile falters slightly as they shake hands.
"Valentino Conti."
"Italian, right? Great country. Love the wine, the food. Been to Rome a few times for conferences."
I watch Valentino's face remain perfectly neutral as Dad launches into a story about his business trips.
"Dad," I interrupt gently. "Valentino and I actually live in Rome. Part-time, anyway."
"Really? What line of work are you in?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke. I hold my breath, wondering how Valentino will handle this. We've practiced variations of this conversation, but actually sitting here, watching my father wait for an answer, feels different.
"Security consulting," Valentino says smoothly. "International clients."
It's not a lie, exactly. Just a very selective interpretation of the truth.
Dad nods approvingly. "Good field. Growing market with all the instability overseas."
And just like that, we're safe. Dad doesn't ask follow-up questions because he doesn't really want to know the answers. He wants to file Valentino under "acceptable son-in-law" and move on to topics he's comfortable with.
But as we settle in for drinks before dinner, something shifts in the room.
Mom asks Valentino about Sicily, and he tells her about his mother's olive grove with genuine warmth.
Dad mentions a case he worked on involving Italian imports, and Valentino listens without the polite blankness he usually wears around others.
They're trying. All of us are trying.
It's not forgiveness. Not yet, maybe not ever completely. But it's something. A beginning that I thought I'd given up on years ago.
When Valentino's hand finds mine again, his thumb traces across my wedding ring. A silent reminder that whatever happens in this house, we leave together.
And for the first time in my life, that feels like enough.
Luca Sartori hasn't felt anything in six years.
Then a stolen car, a scared woman, and a silent little girl walk into his life — and the most frozen man in the family finally has something to lose.
His story is live now. Click Here or scan the QR code to start reading.