"And then she died."
"And then she died." The words taste like ash. Like smoke and grief and failure. "Three days later. She'd been drinking all day while I was at a meeting with Matteo."
I can still see it. The tile floor. The way her hair spread out like a dark halo. The way her chest barely moved.
"I called 911. Held her while we waited, chocking on her vomit. She opened her eyes once—just once—and looked at me. And I could see that she knew. That that was it. That she'd finally drunk enough to kill herself." My jaw tightens. "She tried to say something. I think it was 'sorry.' But her words were slurred and I couldn't... I couldn't understand her."
Bianca's hand tightens on mine.
"The ambulance came. They took her to the hospital but it was too late. Her body was shutting down from years of poison. The doctors said there was nothing they could do. That even if she’d survived, she'd have needed transplants she'd never qualify for. So we just... waited."
"You stayed with her."
"For three days. I sat by her bed while the machines beeped and the nurses tried to look anywhere but at us. She smelled like vodka and hospital antiseptic. Her skin was yellow. Jaundiced from liver failure. Her breathing was shallow. And all I could think was that she had wasted her time. Wasted it on my father. On his scandal. On drowning in bottles instead of fighting to stay alive for me."
"You were angry with her."
"I was furious. For leaving me and giving up. For not being strong enough to survive." I close my fist around the watch. "But I was also angry at myself. For not seeing it sooner; not taking the bottles away; not forcing her into rehab or treatment or anything that might have saved her."
Bianca reaches across the seat, takes my hand. The one holding the watch.
"It wasn't your fault."
"I know that. Logically, I know that." I look at her. "But knowing and believing are different things."
"Yeah." Her thumb moves over my knuckles. "They are."
We sit like that for a while. Her hand in mine. The watch between us. The pendant still in her other palm.
"She was right, you know," Bianca says softly. "Your mother. About time being all we have."
"I know."
"And she'd want you to use yours well. To not waste it on guilt or anger or trying to fix things you can't change."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"I think you're trying to control everything because you couldn't control the one thing that mattered most." She squeezes my hand. "But you can't control death, Dante. You can't control disease or addiction or the choices other people make. You can only control what you do with the time you have left."
The truth of it sits heavy in my chest.
"What would you do?" I ask. "If you knew you only had limited time left. What would you do with it?"
"I'd spend it with the people I love. I'd stop hiding. Stop pretending. Stop wasting energy on things that don't matter." She looks at me, and there's something fierce in her eyes. "I'd choose the messy, complicated, terrifying thing over the safe thing. Every time."
"Even if it costs you everything?"
"Especially then."
The car pulls up to my house and Marco gets out, giving us privacy.
I should move. Should open the door and go inside and put distance between us before this conversation goes somewhere I can't take back.
Instead, I pull her closer.
"I'm in love with you," I whisper. "I've been trying not to be. Trying to keep this strategic and controlled and safe. I tried to tell myself you were just a tool I'm using against Caterina. Just a convenient solution to an inconvenient problem."
Her breath catches.
