The gate guards wave us through, and the gravel cracks beneath the tires as we enter Marcello’s vineyard. Sunlight spills across the rolling green hills, the fir trees rising like quiet sentinels at the edges of the land. There is a kind of peace here—gentle, unthreatening, untouched by the wars we’ve waged.
A family day is exactly what she needs. A soft place to land. A place where no one will speak sharply or look too long. One miscarriage breaks a woman; three nearly shatter her entirely. I’ve watched her fight battles in silence that would have crushed lesser souls.
I squeeze her hand, forcing her to turn from the window. She gives me a small smile, thin as paper, brave as steel. The dark circles beneath her eyes hide under careful makeup, but nothing hides them from me.
Not after everything we’ve survived. Not after everything she’s lost.
“You okay, bella?”
She nods—too quickly, too lightly—because that’s what she does now, softens the edges of her pain so no one feels cut by it. But I know her better than that. I hear her in the shower when she thinks the water will drown out the sound. I hear the broken pieces of her heart hit the tile, night after night, and every damn time I wish I could take all of it and burn it in my hands so she never has to feel it again.
“We’re here, love bug,” she murmurs, turning toward our son with a smile so gentle it nearly hides the exhaustion tightening her eyes. “You can see Antonio and Maria.”
“Yay!”
Daniele launches himself out of the car before I’ve even pulled the key from the ignition.
“Danny, slow down!” Beatrice calls after him, exasperation warming her voice. “If we take our eyes off him for one second, he bolts.”
A low laugh rumbles out of me as I round the car and open her door. I take her hand, threading our fingers together, anchoring her to me with the smallest gesture. I feel the sadness lingering inside her like a shadow behind glass—quiet, patient, unspoken.
“You okay?” I try again, softer.
She nods. “Just a little winded, that’s all. It’s been a long week.”
Another lie disguised as normalcy. She’s been carrying grief in her bones for months, and the weight of it has reshaped her in small, devastating ways. But she needs time, not pressure, so I let the lie sit between us without touching it.
Marcello meets us at the front steps, beard peppered with gray, the inevitable tax of this life. His posture, though, is as it always was—shoulders squared, spine like something forged in the war-torn streets that raised us all. He kisses Beatrice on both cheeks, nods to me, ruffles Daniele’s hair.
“Davacalli family,” he says with a familiar gruff warmth. “Always prompt. I expect nothing less with a drill sergeant like Matteo at the helm. Come in. Marta has been waiting for you, Bea.”
“Maria and Antonio?” Danny shouts before Marcello can even finish.
Marcello laughs. “Antonio is in the game room, my boy.”
And that’s all Daniele needs; he’s already sprinting down the hallway, a blur of limbs and joy echoing through the quiet house.
The scent of rosemary and roasted meat wraps around us as we step inside. The contemporary farmhouse kitchen glows with late afternoon light, and Marta stands at the stove, commanding three pots at once like only she can, cooking as if she’s feeding a battalion.
“Ahh! Bea, you’re here!” she squeals, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron before engulfing my wife in a hug. They laugh together, a sound so full and bright it feels like the first real breath Beatrice has taken in days.
“You look good, girl—you’re glowing. I swear you disappear for ages.”
Beatrice pulls back, smiling wider than she has all week. “It’s good to see you again, Marta.”
I walk beside my wife and press a kiss to her cheek. She leans into me without thinking, her body softening against mine in a way that tells me more than any words could. She’s exhausted—hollowed out by months of grief—but the moment my mouth touches her skin, some of the tension unspools from her shoulders.
Good. Let me be the one thing in this world she doesn’t have to brace herself against.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a small shape hovering at the edge of the kitchen doorway—a thin little frame half-hidden behind the wall. Maria. Marcello’s jewel, his world, the living reminder of how quickly innocence can be snatched away.
“Looks like you have a little admirer,” Beatrice murmurs, nudging me gently. She tilts her chin toward the tiny brown head. “Ciao, bella.”
I lift my hand and give the little girl a small wave, offering the softest smile I can manage. She ducks back behind the wall so fast that her pigtails whip through the air, then she peeks out again, watching Beatrice and me with that mixture of curiosity and wary calculation.
“Amore?” Marcello calls, turning toward her. “Do you want to come say hi?”
Maria shakes her head hard,pigtails flapping, and sprints away from the kitchen before anyone can coax her into the light.
