The name Vittorio Greco sits in my mind like a shadow that doesn’t move. His threat isn’t loud, but it’s constant, threaded through the quiet moments of my days. I feel it when I walk the garden paths, when I sit alone in the rooms Giovanni leaves me in, even when I close my eyes at night. It’s there, pressed somewhere between my ribs, heavy and sharp all at once.
But lately, there’s something heavier than Vittorio.
The knowledge I carry sits differently. The weight of it is quiet but relentless. I feel it every morning when I wake, in the small changes in my body, in the fatigue that pulls at me, in the way my thoughts circle back to the same truth I’ve kept to myself.
Giovanni doesn’t know yet.
It should be him I tell first, but the thought of speaking it aloud makes my breath catch. I’ve kept it close, turning it over and over in my mind, as if holding it in silence could keep it safe.
The garden is quiet today, the air heavy with the scent of roses and trimmed grass. I’m seated on the far edge of the stone bench when Dario finds me. His approach is always unhurried, his presence never pressing, but his eyes miss nothing.
“You’re quieter than usual,” he says, lowering himself onto the other end of the bench. His gaze stays on the roses, but I feel it when he turns it toward me. “Is it Greco?”
I shake my head, though the answer is more complicated than that. My hands move slowly, my signs careful. There’s something I haven’t told Giovanni.
Dario doesn’t ask what it is. He waits, patient in a way that makes it harder to hold the words back.
I sign again, smaller now. I can’t. Not yet.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. “Whatever it is, it’s not going away because you keep it to yourself,” he says finally. His voice is steady, even, the way it always is. “You should tell him.”
The words stay with me long after he leaves.
By the time I make my way back inside, the light in the halls has shifted. The sun is lower, spilling a warmer glow across the polished floors. My steps are measured, my thoughts circling the same point until there’s no avoiding it anymore.
I find Giovanni in his study. The door is open, the low murmur of his voice carrying into the hall as he finishes a call. He ends it with a few clipped words, then looks up, his eyes finding mine immediately.
“Liliana.” His tone softens when he says my name, though his attention sharpens at the sight of me in the doorway.
I step inside, closing the door behind me. My hands lift almost automatically, my fingers shaping the words carefully. I need to tell you something.
His gaze stays on me, steady, unreadable. “I know,” he says, his voice quiet but certain.
The words stop me for a moment. My hands falter. I study his face, looking for some sign that he’s only guessing, but there’s no hesitation in him.
I shake my head slightly, the faintest crease in my brow. You can’t know.
His mouth curves, not in amusement but in something sharper, something more deliberate. “I know,” he says again. “But I want to hear you say it.”
The words settle between us, heavier than the space they take.
My pulse is steady but loud in my ears. I hesitate, my hands lifting again before I pause. My signs feel too small for this, too safe.
Giovanni leans back slightly, his eyes still fixed on mine. “No,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “Not with your hands. I want to hear you say it.”
The room feels closer suddenly, the air tighter. I draw in a breath, my throat dry. The words are heavier than I thought they would be, but I let them form anyway.
My lips part, the air catching in my throat before the sound finds its way out. “A…Ammm…” The last word is heavier, slower, broken by the uneven catch of my breath. “Bwe…bwe…nnant.”
The words are unsteady and badly slurred, but they’re out, and I pray he understands them.
Giovanni doesn’t move at first. His eyes hold mine, the stillness in him sharp, deliberate. Then, slowly, his expression shifts, the edges softening in a way I haven’t seen often.
For the first time in days, the weight I’ve been carrying feels like it might be lighter.
His stillness doesn’t break. It holds between us in the air, until the softening in his expression deepens into something I don’t have a name for.
“Liliana,” he says my name like it’s an answer to something he hasn’t asked aloud.
