"Piccola, come here. Let Mama make it better."
The memory hits without warning. Seven years old, stomach flu, curled on the bathroom floor. My mother's cool hands on my forehead, her voice singing soft Italian lullabies while chamomile tea steeped on the nightstand.
The kettle whistles, and I'm crying before I can stop myself.
She made this tea through every illness, every heartbreak, every hard day of my life. After Dad died she'd make cups for both of us and we'd sit in silence, letting the warmth seep into our bones.
During her chemo, when she could barely keep anything down, she'd still insist on chamomile tea. I'd brew it exactly how she taught me, and she'd manage three sips before exhaustion took her.
The last time I made it for her, she couldn't even manage one.
"Shit."
I spin away, my hands swiping hard at my wet cheeks. Stupid. So stupid to cry here. Vittoria stands in the doorway.
"May I?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. She pours hot water into both cups, adds tea bags, and sits at the island's far end. The space between us feels charged but not hostile.
"Chamomile was my father's favorite." Her voice is softer than I've ever heard it. "He'd make it every night before bed. Said it kept bad dreams away."
"Did it work?"
"No." She wraps her hands around the mug, steam rising between us. "But I still drink it sometimes. Especially when I miss him."
We drink in silence. It’s not tense, just… quiet. Is this what normal feels like? Just tea. Just two women who miss their parents.
"It's been years since he died." Vittoria stares into her cup. "The grief doesn't leave. Just becomes...manageable. Like learning to breathe with broken ribs."
"When does it stop feeling like drowning?"
"I'll let you know."
Nine-thirty. A soft rap on the door. So quiet I’d miss it if every nerve in my body wasn’t screaming his name.
"Come in."
The door opens and it's him. He shuts it behind him, the click of the latch sealing us in. He’s shed the armor of his suit. Now he's in dark jeans and a gray henley that pulls tight across his shoulders. His hair is a mess, the way it gets when he’s run his hands through it too many times. The sight makes my chest ache.
"We need to discuss the wedding."
"The fake wedding." I pull my knees to my chest.
"The very public, very dangerous fake wedding." He remains by the door, maintaining distance as always.
"Are you going to stand there all night?"
He hesitates, then crosses to my bed, sitting on the edge like it might burn him. The mattress dips under his weight, and I resist the urge to slide toward him.
"Are you okay with this?"
The question surprises me. "Do I have a choice?"
"There's always a choice." His fingers drum against his thigh. "I could get you out of Chicago. Hidden somewhere safe. New identity, new life."
"Running again?" The thought exhausts me. "No. I'm tired of running."
I shift closer, our knees almost touching. "Besides, who else would I fake marry? You're the only one offering."
