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He let her go.

“Did you love her?” I ask because I really, really need to know that.

“In a way,” he replies. “We were married for years, and I cared about her. I loved her for giving me Paolo, for being there for him. But I was never in love with her. Not the way I’m in love with you.”

30

Kira

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Dad kidnapped me and I learned Domenico’s ex-wife is very much alive.

In the grand scheme of life, it’s such a small and insignificant amount of time. Still, it feels like a lifetime. Much like my marriage to Domenico. It’s only been a few months, yet it feels like another lifetime.

How many lifetimes does one get? I kind of hope this is my last one. I’m not sure how many more my poor heart can handle. But even as I think that, I’m not sure that’s truly what I hope for. Not when I have Domenico at my side.

Once upon a time, he was the man I was forced to marry in this very church. Now he’s the man I choose.

As I ponder all of this, my hand absentmindedly drifts to the thin, pink line on my forehead. It’s healed nicely, and unless I wear my hair back, no one seems to notice it.

I straighten on the pew I’m sitting on in Saint Benedict’s. Every time I’ve been here during the last couple of weeks, it strikes me how everything here looks and smells the same when I feel like a completely different person.

Unable to help myself, I look behind me at the door, half expecting Domenico to either stand there or walk through. Since the kidnapping, he’s barely let me out of his sight for more than an hour at a time.

Not because he’s controlling me, but because every time I leave a room, he finds a reason to follow five minutes later. His eyes tracking me across the penthouse like I might evaporate if he blinks too long.

I don’t mind, though. How can I when being watched by my husband feels less like control and more like being wanted?

“Kira.”

Father Joseph’s voice pulls me back to the present. He stands at the end of the pew, hands folded, his expression gentle.

“Hey,” I say, smiling warmly at him.

He slides into the pew beside me, leaving enough space that we’re not touching but close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Father.”

“How are you holding up?”

The question hangs between us, simple and impossible. How am I holding up?

“I’m doing okay,” I say. It’s not entirely a lie. “Or getting there, anyway.”

Mom’s death catches me at weird angles. In the shower, mostly. Something about hot water and closed eyes makes the hollow feeling rush back in, and for a minute I’m standing in the cemetery again with frost under my shoes and Domenico’s arm around my waist.

Those moments still hurt, but the hurt is changing shape. Less like a knife between the ribs, more like an old bruise you press on just to feel something. I think it’s because a part of me, one I never really acknowledged, didn’t expect Mom to recover.

I hoped, of course.

I prayed, naturally.

But even then, you can only suspend reality for so long.

“Truly?” Father Joseph probes.

“Sleep comes and goes,” I admit. “Some nights I drop off the second my head hits the pillow and don’t move until Domenico shakes me awake. But other nights I lie there for hours and think about Mom.”