Tears streamed down my cheeks, mingling with the raindrops that slid down the windowpane. “Why?” I cried, the word torn from me in a sob, echoing through the empty room.
He hesitated, his back still turned to me. “I can’t bring you down,tesoro. Not anymore. I can’t stop you from living your life because my grief is overwhelming.”
I shook my head, the world narrowing to the darkness in his voice.
He looked at me, his gaze shadowed with guilt and haunted by the ghosts of things left unsaid. “Your dream is fashion, art, and books. I’ve stopped you from living your life, from chasing your dreams, and I hate myself for it.”
“Ronan…” His name slipped from my lips, a soft, broken plea tangled with everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. He lifted a trembling hand to my face, his fingers gently tracing the path ofa tear that had already fallen.
“Tesoro, you’re a light. You’re the brightest light this world will ever know.” His thumb brushed my cheek, reverent, as if he could somehow wipe away the pain. “And I’m… smoke. I keep dragging you into my mess, my darkness, and my grief.”
I reached up, holding his hand against my cheek, closing my eyes to feel the warmth of his touch. “I’ve always seen past the shadows and grief. I’m not afraid of the smoke because you taught me how to breathe through it.”
“I wish it were that simple,” he mumbled, his voice a whisper carried on the storm’s lament.
“It can be,” I insisted, stepping closer to him despite the gulf that stretched between us. “Don’t shut me out.Please.”
His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Non posso perdere anche te,1” he admitted, his voice barely audible over the rain’s ceaseless drumming.
“Then don’t,” I urged, reaching out to take his hand. He flinched again, but this time he didn’t pull away. His fingers intertwined with mine, a fleeting connection in the face of an uncertain future.
“I can’t continue dragging you down with me,” he said, his voice a tortured whisper. “You deserve everything you want out of life. You deserve to become everything you’ve ever dreamed of being. Me, this, us—it will bring you down. It’s been bringing you down. I can’t let that happen. Not anymore.”
“Please don’t leave me,” I whispered, the words a prayer against the storm raging both outside and within.
He closed his eyes, his forehead pressing against mine as if seeking solace in the touch. “Mi dispiace,2” he whispered, his breath warm against my skin.
He let go of my hand, his touch slipping away like the last vestige of hope in a world turned dark and uncertain. Then turned toward the door, each step a heavy echo in the silencethat enveloped us both.
I watched him go as the door closed softly behind him, leaving me alone with the storm and the shattered remnants of a love that had promised forever, only to falter in the face of unfathomable loss.
I sank to the floor once more, my heart aching with the weight of goodbye. Stillness followed, and I clung to the memory of his touch, the echo of his words, and the stupid, fragile hope that someday,somehow, we would find our way back to each other amidst the ruins of what once was.
But for now, all that remained was the rainfall that matched the tears I shed for a love lost and a future shattered by the cruel hand of fate.
Chapter One
RONAN
Four Years Earlier
ITALY
Itraced the rim of my espresso cup, coffee mingling with the scent of fresh pastries and the hum of lively chatter. Across from me sat Avo, a robust man in his early fifties, his lined face reflecting both hard-won wisdom and burdens. His sharp eyes held a surprising softness, belying his gruff exterior. Once my father’s closest friend, now mine.
He raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Espresso, huh? That’s new. You used to be more of a scotch guy.”
I shrugged, wrapping my hand tighter around the small cup asif it held more than a drink. “Nina loves espresso.”
Avo’s smile faded. “It’s been a year, and you still think about her every time you drink a cup.”
The problem with what he said? It wasn’t only when I had a cup in my hands—I thought about her all the time.
“Yeah.” The word was as bitter as the espresso I couldn’t seem to quit. But the truth was, each cup felt like a thread connecting me to her. A thread I wasn’t ready to cut. “Some things never change, and this is one of them.”
He leaned back, arms crossed, his deep voice steady but edged with concern. “She applied to a fashion school.”
“Which school?”
