Alba’s expression softens, surprise melting into warmth. “Mio caro cognato,my dear brother-in-law, I’m honored to be the first to know. This makes my heart very happy.”
27
ALESSIA
I’m excited to go to Florence—not only because Alba is there and Toni is on her way, but because I haven’t seen my husband in over two weeks, and I miss him more than I’ve allowed myself to admit.
On the phone, I’ve been careful and polite.
Not because I don’t care—but because I care too much, and distance feels safer than hope.
Now, I’m thrilled and anxious in equal measure, my pulse skittering with anticipation as the city draws closer.
I text him to let him know I’m coming. He responds with a thumbs-up emoji.
I stare at the screen.
What does that mean?
Never in my life have I analyzed a response like this. Not texts, not pauses, not silences. And yet here I am—a woman on the brink of thirty—reduced to reading emotional tea leaves like a teenager plucking petals from a daisy.
Does he love me.
Does he love me not.
I lock my phone and drop it into my bag, exhaling sharply.
By the time I reach the Palazzo, Florence is wrapped in an early-evening gold that pours across the rooftops and settles into every crease of stone, making arches and columns glow.
It’s late October, and the air is cool, tinged with the spicy, clove-like scent of dianthus flowers that are often used as border plants in Florence’s historic gardens as they bloom until the first frost.
I tell myself I’m here for Alba. I’m here for Toni, who is right now speeding up from Milan in her Maserati MC20 Cielo with the top down and a playlist of ’80s hits blasting.
I’m here for the promise of sisterhood and laughter. I remind myself that tonight doesn’t have to revolve around barrel inventories or balance sheets or the steady, watchful eyes of the wine gods.
None of that explains the hitch in my breath when Nico opens the door of his apartment even before I knock.
He stands in the threshold, silhouetted by the fading light.
For a beat, I don’t move.
He looks…relieved?
Not in a wary or doubtful way, but as if I’ve just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t sure was real. His brows lift, and color spikes in his cheeks.
Then he moves.
Fast.
His arms circle me, pressing me against a broad chest I’ve missed more than I knew. My cheek rests against the soft wool of his jacket, his pulse throbbing under my skin.
His hand threads into my hair, fingertips curling at the nape of my neck as though confirming I’m not a mirage.
“Cara,” he breathes—his voice low, rough, a confession in itself.
The kiss that follows is fierce and immediate.
It’s warm and uncompromising, a slow burn of longing that erases distance, dissolves silence, blurs every ache we’ve kept locked away.
