Liliana doesn’t move, but I feel her eyes on me, quiet, intent. I don’t turn to her. I don’t want her to see the line my face takes when it shifts into business.
“Details when I get there.” I cut the call, set the phone back on the table, and stand.
I cross to the chair, taking my slacks and sliding them on, followed by a black shirt. My fingers move methodically over the buttons, my mind already turning toward the dock, toward retaliation.
I glance over my shoulder, unable to resist looking at her. She’s still lying there, half-wrapped in the sheets, her hair loose across her bare shoulders, watching me. There’s a weight in her gaze that makes my chest feel tighter than it should.
I cross back to her. My hand lifts almost of its own accord, ruffling her hair gently. I bend down, pressing my mouth to her forehead, lingering there a moment longer than I should. “I regret that I can’t spend the rest of the morning with you, cara. Business needs me.”
Her expression doesn’t change much, but I can see the quiet shift in her eyes, the faintest tilt of her mouth. I smooth my palm over her hair one more time. “Have a beautiful day. Make sure you eat.”
I should leave, but I can’t. Not yet. There’s something in the way she’s looking at me. Her gaze is soft, still half-lost to sleep, and it keeps me rooted where I am. I lean down again, unable to resist, and catch her mouth with mine.
Her lips are soft, warm, tasting faintly of the quiet we’ve built between us, of the stillness of morning and the heat that lies just beneath it. I linger, taking more than I should, letting the kiss stretch until I feel her breath falter against mine.
When I finally pull back, it’s slow, reluctant, my gaze holding hers like I can anchor her here for just a moment longer before I straighten.
I turn toward the door, but a sharp sound against the bedside table stops me in my tracks. I glance back. She’s sitting up now, the sheets pooled around her waist, her hair a wild frame around her face. Her gaze drifts, searching, scanning the room until it lands on something. She reaches for it, her fingers curling around the gray, wooly scarf folded neatly over the back of the chair.
She holds it out toward me, carefully, her hand hesitant. Her movements are small, deliberate, almost cautious.
I watch as she signs, I made this for you, wear it for luck.
Her eyes stay down, not meeting mine, and I see it, the small, restless motion of her fingers rubbing against her wrist. The telltale sign of her nerves.
I cross the room to her. I take the scarf from her hands, feeling the weight of it. The wool is soft, dense, threaded with patience and care. The color stops me for a moment. It's storm-gray, exact, like my own eyes.
“Liliana.” Her name slips out quieter than I intend, as though the air itself might catch the sound and keep it for me. Something shifts deep in my chest, solid and steady.
I draw her into me, one hand sliding to the back of her head, holding her there as though she might slip away if I don’t. I breathe her in, lavender and the faint warmth of sleep, the quiet presence that’s become more than habit. I’m in love with my wife. Entirely. Absolutely. Without condition.
When I pull back, I don’t step away. My hands stay on her face, my thumbs brushing over the soft line of her cheeks. I press my mouth to her forehead, then the curve of her cheek, then her lips. “Thank you,” I tell her, the words heavier than they sound. “I love it.”
Her eyes flick upward, still shy, like the weight of my words is something she can’t hold yet.
“Ti amo.”
Her smile is small, faint, the kind of smile that tells me she’s still holding herself back, that she needs time. I don’t need her to say it back. Yesterday she told me I was hers, and that’s enough for me. I can wait for her to fall the way I have.
I smooth my palm over her hair one last time, letting my fingers linger before ruffling it gently. It is harder than I want to admit to step away from her, but I force myself to turn, pulling the door quietly behind me.
In my own room, I move on instinct. The shower is quick, the water cold and bracing, stripping away the last traces of warmth clinging to my skin. It sharpens me, clears the haze of the morning, but it doesn’t touch what she left inside me. That stays.
I towel off, then dress in a charcoal suit and black shirt, each movement practiced, deliberate. My hands pause briefly when I take the scarf. I pause for a moment. It’s long, meant to wrap around my neck, the storm-gray knit close and even, every stitch neat and precise. It isn’t winter yet, so I don’t wear it.
Instead, I set it carefully in the drawer where I keep the few things I won’t risk losing. I close it slowly, the weight of it still sitting in me even as I turn away.
When I step outside, Tomasso is leaning against the car, arms crossed, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes sweep over me, assessing, amused. “Shipment gets hit, and you show up looking like that. Good mood for bad news.”
I don’t bother with a reply, but my mouth tilts in a smile.
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Must be a good morning.”
I open the door and slide into the car without a word, still.
The gates are already rolling open when I catch sight of movement on the drive. Dario is coming in, walking at an easy pace until he notices me and Tomasso. His shoulders straighten, his step sharpens. His greeting is polite, careful, that faint note of wariness threading through his voice.
I acknowledge him with a single nod. I had disliked him when he first came visiting, but it's obvious Liliana loves her cousin. She is at ease with him. He makes her smile, and I trust that. I have looked into him thoroughly enough to know he is nothing like Renato. Dario will not harm her.
