Sadness pools in his eyes as they meet mine. “Dolcezza, I am so sorry.”
The acidity of the wine puckers the back of my tongue just as his words hit, leaving a tannic aftertaste that lingers after each sip. A trace of salt from unshed tears wells behind my palate, mingling with the sharpness of pecorino from the last bite of my meal.
I shake my head—no. He doesn’t get to make me feel guilty for breaking over what he broke.
“I need air,” I say, though what I really need is distance. From the table. From the truth. From the way everything I thought was solid has turned pliable under my hands.
I weave through the dining room, past white tablecloths and low laughter, past a waiter who murmurs something apologetic as I brush by. The heavy doors feel too far away. My chest tightens with every step, breath coming shallow and sharp.
I push through the exit and into the night.
Florence is cool and indifferent around me. The sounds of the restaurant fade behind thick stone walls, replaced bythe echo of my boots on cobblestones and the rush of blood in my ears.
I run, past fountains still murmuring under moonlight, back toward the Palazzo Alighieri. I slip through a narrow side entrance I learned as a child, stones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
I use my keys to get inside even as my lungs burn.
I walk faster and faster until I find the western corridor, abandoned and silent, where my footsteps whisper against mossy walls.
Behind a faded tapestry, I find the hidden door.
Beyond it, a steep, unlit stairwell.
I climb, hands grazing damp stone, heart drumming in my ears until the final door groans open.
Inside, in the pale lunar glow, I find my sanctuary: a small oratory tucked beneath the eaves.
Dust motes drift in the single arched window’s beam.
A narrow wooden bench hugs the wall; the air is musty, smelling of oak and age.
This was my refuge after Mama died, when the world cracked open and left me hollow.
I slump to the floor, press my forehead to my knees—and then I unravel.
It starts as a strangled cry I barely recognize, raw and animal.
My shoulders quake.
My fists twist in my hair as if I could braid myself back together.
Matteo is dying. Oh God!
And no one told me.
I trusted them—my husband, my sister, the voices I depended on—and they whispered decisions about my life in my absence.
I didn’t care about the job. I never did. I care that they believed I couldn’t bear the truth.
I press my mouth into my sleeve, but it does nothing to stanch my tears.
I fold in on myself, each breath a question etched in sorrow: If they could hide something this huge—what else have they decided I don’t deserve to know?
29
NICO
I watch her push to her feet so abruptly that the wooden chair claws across the flagstone, sending a sharp, grating echo. Nearby tables still; conversations stall mid-word, like breath held too long.
