“I don’t have speeches,” he says. “I didn’t practice.” His face breaks into a grin. “I’ve got this. I want to be part of your family. Yours.”
I don’t cry. I’ve done enough of that. I laugh instead, a small, stunned sound that feels like relief finding a door. My throat closes and opens again. I look at him, then at the ring. There’s a tiny notch on the inside, like a private mark.
“Yes,” I whisper. It’s the smallest word that changes everything.
The street is empty. The world feels like it’s making room for the two of us.
“Give me your hand,” he says, asking permission.
I do. My fingers are cold from the night. His are warm and sure. He turns my hand palm up, looks at it like it matters, and slides the ring onto my finger. It sits there the way something right does when you finally stop trying to talk yourself out of it.
It’s only us and the lamp and the sound of our hearts relearning a slower, truer pace. He tips his forehead to mine. The scent of coffee on his skin. The heat of him. My mouth finds a smile all on its own. It lasts a heartbeat. Then Matteo’s body shifts a degree. It’s readiness. He steps half a pace in front of me without a word and watches the night.
Headlights crest the far end of Main and drift toward us, a single car moving slowly, as if it knows there’s no rush to arrive.
30
MATTEO
The car rolls, slow and deliberate, headlights low, tires scraping packed snow. I step off the stoop and lift a hand. The driver kills the beams and idles at the curb. When the door opens, Nico climbs out with his hood up and his posture easy. Petro rides shotgun and stays in the seat, two fingers at the brim of a borrowed cap.
“Talk,” I say.
Nico scans the scene in his way, subtle and unhurried. Me with Lila, the night folding around us, the halo of the streetlamp above. He reads it all and keeps it short.
“Albany crew’s done. They were the ones behind the Wrenleigh siege—Benedetti’s idea, their muscle. The SUV matches a burner lease tied to a dead shell. Motel rooms are cleared. Two from the pageant are arraigned and won’t see daylight before Easter. The woman is out of the county. Two plates hit the Thruway east at noon. No tails stayed behind.”
He splays two fingers in aveni, vidi, vicisort of flourish and grins wide. “All quiet now.”
“Any stragglers?” I ask.
“None inside the loop,” Nico says. “Sheriff’s got eyes on the square and the road to the bridge. He thinks we’re overreacting. I let him think it.”
Petro leans across the console. “We set a friendly with the night clerk at The Lantern. He will call if faces return.” He tries for a smile. “He also says your order’s improving.”
I let that pass. “Good work,” I tell them. “You sleep somewhere warm. Do not come back unless I call.”
Nico nods. “Auguri, capo.”
“Notcapo,” I correct him. “Not here.”
He glances over my shoulder at the gold letters on the window and gives the smallest grin I have ever seen on his face. “Auguri, allora.” Best wishes, then.
They slide back into the car. The engine hums and fades down Main, a black shape folding into a darker street. I stand in the cold long enough to be sure no second set of lights creeps in their wake. Nothing moves but snowflakes that land on my knuckle and melt. The cold does what it can, but I’ve already decided to go inside.
We walk back to the bakery. I lock the door and turn the deadbolt. The warmth inside hits like a hand to the chest. Cinnamon, butter, a trace of coffee, and the low, steady thrum from the oven heat.
New Year’s comes quietly. The days slip by in baking, mending, watching, and a thousand small together-moments. Coziness drifts like snow that clings to rooftops and sills, lifting in the breeze when the sun shines bright. On New Year’s Eve, we walkthrough the old town, Lila pointing out streets, bookshops, and benches from her childhood. I listen, letting her joy fill the silence. Twilight deepens, and the bakery bell greets us home.
Marco spots us and launches from the bench with a rustle of paper. “Papa! Crown time.” He has taped two gold stars to a strip of construction paper and stapled the ends together with all the seriousness of an engineer. He lifts it high, feet planted, waiting for compliance.
I kneel so he can set it on my head. The crown tilts to the left and stays there like it knows its job is joy. My boy claps, bright and hard.
Lila laughs. The sound cuts through whatever ice I still carry. She stands at the counter with a tea towel over one shoulder, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair tucked behind one ear. The ring we chose glints as she moves. Maria brings a casserole from the oven and pretends not to watch it as she sets it down.
Lila’s shoulders have dropped a fraction. Her face, free of strain, looks younger, almost alight. Her eyes shine. Her laughter rings like bells at play. She ruffles Marco’s hair and teases Maria for using oat milk in a cake, thinking it was the real thing. She’s everywhere at once—a fluid grace of motion and spirit.
Maria touches my arm, her warm brown eyes saying everything between the lines. “You made this possible,” she orders. “You eat with your family. New Year’s Eve doesn’t wait for men who pace.”
