My man giving me agency, telling me that he’ll be thereno matter what. He’s not saying, we’ll fix this or we’ll talk, just that he’s here for me whenever and however I need him.
“His housekeeper told me he doesn’t want to be in a hospital. He wants to die at home,” I say, staring out the window without really seeing anything.
Nico passes another car on the motorway as he takes the exit to Matteo’s town. “The cancer advanced rapidly in the past month.”
I swallow. “I should have checked on him sooner. I should have checked on him—period.”
“You were busy with harvest, Alessia.”
“He was sick and I didn’t know.” I turn to his profile. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I know he means it.
He did what Matteo asked of him, and I don’t know how to honor that without resenting him for keeping me in the dark.
We fall silent after that again as Nico navigates the streets that seem too narrow for a car and yet, somehow, a bus manages to rumble past, horn sounding a gentle warning rather than a threat.
When we reach Matteo’s home, the driveway is tight and Nico has to ease the car as close to the wall as possible, tires kissing the curb.
When we step out, the stone is cool against my shoulder as I steady myself.
At the ivy-clad doorway, his nurse greets us. Her gaze flicks to Nico, then back to me.
“Signor Alarico, it’s nice of you to come see Matteo again,” she greets.
Ah. So Nico has been here before. Of course he has, a part of me thinks bitterly—he knew Matteo was ill before I did. I brush the thought away.
No.I’m not going to let that poison me any longer.
A man is dying, and there’s no room for triviality.
I hand over the thermos I brought for Matteo. “It’s his favorite soup.”
The nurse smiles. “Farinata di cavolo nero?”
“Yes,” I say, puzzled that she knows Matteo loves the old-fashioned Tuscan kale soup.
“He talked about how much he loves your cooking.”
My heart clenches. My mother used to make black cabbagefarinata—a rustic soup, thick and creamy, built from black cabbage, beans, and polenta. It’s not fancy. In fact, it’s traditionalcucina povera—peasant cooking—humble and elemental, the kind of food born from necessity rather than indulgence.
Maybe that’s why Matteo and I both love it so much—why my mother did, too.
Her absence rises sharply inside me now, just as I stand on the brink of losing yet another parental figure.
Grief layers upon grief, old and new folding together, and for a moment it feels as though the past and the present have conspired to hollow me out completely.
Nico and I walk into the living room. It’s still the way Isabella—Matteo’s wife—kept it. They never had children, and in some ways, I was their child. But I was always closer to Matteo than I was to Isabella. When she died, I wrapped myself around him because that loss was massive for him. We grieved together.
Alba and Toni were there, too—more for me than for Matteo. He is a friend of our father’s, yes, and an important man in the company—but I was the daughter of his heart.
And yet, he didn’t tell me he was dying.
In some ways, I understand why he kept it from me. He didn’t want me to hurt—which is foolish, really, because how could he hide something so final?
I stop in front of Matteo’s bedroom. The nurse tells me he’s awake. He’s just had lunch.
I turn and look at Nico.
