I can see now how much I fucked up.
I chose omission—it was easier than confrontation.
I have plenty of excuses.
Harvest is sacred ground, and I didn’t want to pull her from it.
I wanted time to plan, to shield her from Cesare’s relentless ambition.
I was so sure I could control the fallout.
That illusion shatters now, leaving only shards.
“Where would she go?” I ask.
Florence is new to me, but it’s Alessia’s city. She grew up here.
“She has a place in the Palazzo.” Toni picks up her glass of wine and looks at it mournfully. “She doesn’t know that Alba and I know. She used to go there after Mama died and whenever Papà was, you know….”
“She’ll be alright. She just needs to think about it for a moment,” Alba ventures, voice brittle with hope.
I say nothing. I’ve gotten to know my wife’s silences. This one is edged with pain.
I rise, murmuring apologies. No one stops me from leaving.
I need to get away.
I need to process what’s going on.
The lantern-lit streets feel cavernous, the night air heavy with indifference.
Back at the Palazzo, my apartment stands empty: our bedroom linens unmoved, the sitting room cushions uncompressed, the kitchen silent beneath its copper pots. Even the private patio outside the French doors is still, moonlight shimmering in the swimming pool.
I’m worried about her. But I know she doesn’t want to be found.
So, I don’t search. Any attempt from my side would insult her intelligence—she knows every hidden stair, every secret panel. If she wanted me there, she’d tell me.
I settle by the pool. This way, if she comes back—God I hope she comes back—I’ll see her.
I replay the evening in brutal detail: my vague apology, the way I softened the truth instead of trusting her with it.
I witness my own timidity and feel the sickening weight of my weakness.
The truth settles in my chest like a stone: I didn’t defend her and I didn’t tell her about Matteo. Whatever my reasons, that is thetruththat matters to her.
Hours pass before her silhouette appears in the corridor. She stands framed by the doorway, moonlight gilding her hair, eyes red-rimmed but dry.
Her posture is calm, her limbs unhurried.
She has emptied herself of tears and refilled with resolve.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice cracking.
She inclines her head once—a gesture that is neither forgiving nor condemning.
“I believe you,” she says softly. “I believe you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
A spark of relief flares, unearned and brief.
