“Mom... I’ve seen other kids in Greece,” his little voice trembled, full of longing and frustration, “their dads... they take them to the park, buy them toys, play with them, even come to pick them up at school. My friends’ dads... they read them stories at bedtime... they teach them things. My dad... he never comes.”
The words, so small, so earnest, cut deeper than any cruel whisper or vicious rumor in that cathedral could ever have. My breath hitched.
I held him tighter than I should have, wishing I could fold the world around him so no one—least of all his father—could hurt him.
“My relationship with your father...” I murmured, voice thick with the weight of memories and unspoken pain, “is... complicated.”
I buried my face in his curls, inhaling the faint scent of baby shampoo and sunshine—the smell of innocence I would protect with every ounce of me.
“I know,” he whispered back, muffled against my chest. His little fists pressed against my ribs in earnest. “But mine... mine doesn’t have to be.”
God. That simple, pure sentence shattered something inside me. Something I realized I could never protect from love.
I pulled back, cupping his small, stubborn face in my hands. “If I introduce you, he won’t let us leave, baby. He’ll take you... and he’ll send me away. That’s the kind of man he is.”
Vanya’s eyes flared.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. “Then we make him choose,” he said, voice trembling with determination. “Right here. Right now. Before we leave Lake Como.”
My heart lurched into my throat. “Vanya—”
But I didn’t get to finish.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The knock slammed against the hotel door, rattling the frame like it was about to give way. Three hard, commanding raps.
I froze mid-breath, my blood hammering in my ears.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Another three. Sharp. Insistent. Impossible to ignore.
Vanya’s tiny hand shot for mine. I gripped it, squeezing once—steady, quiet. “Be brave.” I told him silently. Then I nudged him to the chair tucked into the corner, whispering, “Stay. Silent.”
My pulse throbbed in my temples as I crept to the door, fingers tightening on the chain lock.
“Who is it?” My voice sounded calmer than I felt, brittle like fine porcelain.
A beat of silence. My ears strained. The faint hum of the hotel corridor seemed to swell with threat.
Then—
“Open the door..”
My stomach turned over.
I knew that voice—the kind that could make men flinch, that had once made my own heart stop.
Giovanni. His voice. Low. Controlled.
I swallowed hard, forced my hands to steady on the chain, and pressed my back against the door.
“You’re the mother of the boy who ran to the boss at the altar,” Giovanni said, voice flat, like he was reading a statement, not speaking to a person.
I drew a sharp breath. “Correct. Thank you for having him manhandled. Are you here to apologize?”
No response. Just the faint click of a boot shifting, a shadow pressed against the frosted glass.
