Sofia is last. She stands, her glass catching the dying light. "To Emma. Not Frances. Not the servant girl. Just Emma. Who is more than enough." She meets my eyes. "Who is everything."
The words hit harder than any apology could. I blink back tears as we all drink, the ancient wine sweet and complex on my tongue.
"Now eat," Marco commands, "before Luca starts dissecting the meat to show us the muscle structure."
"I did that one time," Luca protests.
"At Christmas dinner," Faith reminds him. "With the turkey. While everyone was trying to eat."
"Education is never inappropriate," he says, but he's already cutting into his steak with disturbing precision.
As conversation flows around me, I watch this family—my family—with new eyes. Dante makes Ana laugh with silent jokes only she understands. Marco feeds Valentina bites of his steak when he thinks no one's looking. Nico steals food from everyone's plates with the confidence of the perpetual younger brother. Even Luca seems almost normal, discussing baby names with Faith, though his suggestions lean toward historical poisoners.
"Walk with me," Faith says suddenly, appearing at my elbow as the others debate whether Lucrezia or Agrippina is worse for a baby name.
We move to the bow of the yacht, away from the noise. She moves carefully, one hand supporting her belly, the other gripping the railing. The sun is almost gone now, the lake turned to liquid copper.
"I grew up believing in clear lines," she says without preamble. "Good and evil. Right and wrong. My father was a judge, and I was raised in the church. Everything was black and white until I met Luca."
"And now?"
She laughs, soft and knowing. "Now I understand that darkness isn't always evil, and light isn't always good. The things Luca does, the things we all do… they're terrible. But they're done for love, for family, for survival." She turns to look at me. "You knew who Alessandro was when you saved him. You knew the monster and chose to save him anyway."
"He's not a monster."
"He is," she corrects gently. "They all are. We all are, now. But we're other things too. Parents, siblings, lovers. The trick isn't pretending the darkness doesn't exist. It's learning to live with it without letting it consume the rest."
"How do you do it? Love someone capable of such violence?"
Her hand finds her belly again, a protective gesture. "By remembering that his violence keeps us safe. By accepting that the world isn't as clean as I once believed. By choosing to see all of him, not just the parts that are easy to love." She smiles. "And by occasionally reminding him that there are lines even monsters shouldn't cross."
"Does it get easier?"
"No.But it gets more familiar. And eventually, you stop flinching when he comes home with blood on his hands. You just hand him a towel and ask if he's hurt."
Baby Antonia's cry carries across the deck, and we turn back toward the others. Alessandro is holding her now, the tiny infant looking impossibly small in his arms. He's cooing at her in Italian, completely unbothered by her fussing, and something in my chest cracks open at the sight.
"That's worth the darkness," Faith says quietly. "Those moments. That family."
We rejoin the group as night fully claims the lake. Fairy lights strung around the yacht's deck create a warm glow, and someone has brought out a speaker playing soft jazz. Ana and Dante sway together, her head on his chest, seeming to communicate through movement. Marco and Valentina have claimed the cushioned bench, her legs across his lap as they share a bottle of wine.
"Sofe," Alessandro says suddenly, using the childhood nickname I've rarely heard. "Tell Emma about the time you tried to run away to become a Formula One driver."
"I was nine!" Sofia protests, but she's laughing. "And I would have made it if you hadn't tracked me down at the train station."
"You had a suitcase full of stuffed animals and no money," Marco adds dryly. "Where exactly were you planning to go?"
"Monaco, obviously. Where else would a future racing champion go?"
The stories flow—childhood adventures, family disasters, moments of unexpected tenderness between the violence. They're gifting me their history, weaving me into their narrative not as Frances but as myself. Sofia tells me about teaching young Mikhail Italian words, her voice only breaking once. Nico shares how Alessandro took the fall for him when he crashed their father's favorite car. Even Luca contributes, describing how Marco once fought off six men to protect him, back when Luca was still small and strange and vulnerable.
"He was always odd," Marco says, but there's affection in it. "But he was ours."
"Still am," Luca says, tilting his head at that wrong angle. "Just with better knife skills now."
The yacht rocks gently as we motor back toward the harbor, Chicago's skyline glittering in the distance like a promise or a threat. I stand at the railing, watching our wake disappear into the dark water, when Alessandro finds me.
"Regrets?" he asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
