He’s seen the kids at Christmases.
The kids know of him from Christmases as well. But I’d never seen them interact until this morning.
Luca was so natural with the kids. The kids gravitated to him instantly. It’s almost as if some part of them recognized their connection.
The vacuum catches on something, jerking in my hand. I switch it off and kneel to find one of Elio's toy cars wedged in the brush roll. Fear and frustration mount as I work it free.
My children deserve to know their father. And Luca deserves to know them.
But telling him means losing control of everything I've built to protect us.
I continue to clean, moving through the house, straightening pillows, wiping counters, folding laundry.
In the bathroom, I scrub at a toothpaste splatter on the mirror, catching my reflection. I study her, realizing I’m not the woman I used to be. Today, I’m so guarded, so afraid.
Later, when the evening arrives, I shower and change into comfortable clothes, faded jeans and an oversized sweater.
I don’t know what he has planned, but I don’t want to go out nor appear too eager. We’ll talk and then he can leave.
The knock startles me even as I’ve been waiting for it. When I open the door, Luca stands there with two large bags that smell like heaven—lemongrass, basil, and chili.
My traitorous stomach growls audibly.
"I come bearing Thai food," he says, his eyes taking in my casual attire. I have a sense that he knows I’m still trying to keep my distance from him, but it’s hard when he remembers my favorite food. I step aside to let him in, suddenly conscious of my bare face and messy bun.
"The kids get off okay?" he asks, setting the food on my kitchen counter.
“Like a herd of elephants.”
Luca unpacks containers of pad Thai, green curry, and spring rolls. I busy myself getting plates, avoiding his gaze.
"You didn't have to do this," I say but reach for the spring rolls anyway.
“We have to talk. Might as well do it over a nice meal.”
We settle at the kitchen table, the space where just hours ago he sat with our children dunking cookies.
I recall Dom’s comment that Luca had grown harder during his time in Italy, but I don’t see it. I see the same man I fell in love with.
“Do you enjoy having quiet time?” he asks, scooping up rice.
“Yes. I mean, the quiet makes me miss them too, but it’s nice to have a moment to breathe.”
He nods, and a silence falls between us as we eat. Finally, he says, “I suppose you’re aware of my father’s condition.”
I give him a sympathetic smile. “I am.”
Luca's expression clouds. "Gabriella and Marco think it's time for him to step down."
“I imagine that won’t be easy for either of you. Don Monti is a proud man.”
He sighs. “Yes, but they're right." He meets my eyes. "La Corona needs strength in all four corners. Especially now that Dom's facing some challenges as well."
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "What kind of challenges?"
"The kind that makes a man look over his shoulder. Marco thinks someone's still trying to drive wedges between the families." He leans forward. “You know all about the problems of the last few years. Don Ferraza’s wife’s murder, the FBI?—”
“Yes.”
