"I don't care what your intentions were," I cut her off. "Instead of bringing him home, you lured me here.”
She has the good grace to look chagrined.
“My son is not a pawn in whatever game you're playing."
Rocco stirs in my arms, looking up at me with innocent eyes. "Mommy, are you mad?"
I press my lips to his forehead. "Not at you. Never at you."
"We're done here," Luca says with finality, standing and reaching for Rocco. Once Rocco is in his arm, he uses his free hand to help me out.
"Agent Ricci, thank you for returning my son."
She meets my gaze steadily. "Ms. Vitale, I understand your hesitation. But consider that we don’t know who took Rocco, so the threat remains."
"We can protect our own," Dom says with quiet menace.
I take Rocco from Luca's arms, holding him close. "Let's go home."
As we walk toward the door, I can't shake the feeling that we're all pieces in someone else's game. A game they’re now willing to involve children in.
“Is he going to kill her?” I ask once in the car, where Rocco is in the back falling asleep the moment we pulled out from the curb.
“No. Not in a diner, anyway. Not at all, likely. Now that we’ve been seen with her, we’d be the first they’d suspect.” He shakes his head, his disappointment in me evident. “Why don’t you trust me?”
I hate that I’ve hurt him again. “It’s not a matter of not trusting you, Luca. It’s a matter of the kids coming first. Surely, you can understand that.”
His jaw is tight, but he nods in the affirmative.
When we walk through Luca’s front door, Adalina and Elio tackle their brother with such force they nearly knock him over, their little voices overlapping as they bombard him with questions.
Rocco, basks in the attention, dramatically recounting his "adventure" with embellishments that make Luca's eyebrows rise.
“At least he’s not traumatized,” I whisper to Luca.
Antonio shuffles into the room. "Who are these bambini?" he asks, but then recognition dawns. "Ah, Luca's children." He beams with pride. "They have your eyes, Luca."
For hours, we exist in a bubble where the outside world can't touch us. Luca orders pizza and gelato.
The kids build a blanket fort in the living room.
Antonio tells stories of Luca as a boy that make the triplets giggle and Luca groan with embarrassment.
"Papa, enough," Luca protests when Antonio describes how little Luca once tried to "help" in the kitchen and covered himself head-to-toe in flour.
“We did that!” Adalina says.
“No wonder he wasn’t mad,” Elio adds.
“Like father, like children,” I quip, wondering when the kids had been covered head-to-toe in flour.
Watching them all together, Luca teaching the kids Italian Christmas words, Antonio dozing with Adalina curled against him, I see the life we could have had. I hide my sadness about losing it behind a smile as Rocco wishes meBuon Natale, Merry Christmas in Italian.
Later, after tucking the exhausted children into bed, I find Luca in his study, staring into a glass of whiskey.
"They're finally asleep," I say, lingering in the doorway.
He looks up, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. "Good."
