He moves into the entryway, then stops, turning to face me fully. His gaze drags over my messy bun, my bare legs, and the batter smudge on my right hand. Something in his expression softens and tightens at the same time. Then he blurts out, "I'm sorry."
The words hang in the air.
For a second, I question whether I heard him correctly. Sorry isn't something I ever expected him to say to me.
I push off the door slowly, my hand dropping to my side. "You are…" My voice comes out raspier than I intend. I swallow and try again. "You're what?"
"Sorry," he repeats. The word sounds rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "I didn't know."
My heart slams so hard against my ribs that my vision blurs at the edges. My fingers curl into my palms, nails biting into my skin.
He takes a step closer, then appears to reconsider and stops again. "Idid not know, Finzia." His voice cracks slightly on the term he used when I was small enough to sit on his knee.
Finzia.
Another emotion lodges in my chest. No one's called me that in years. Not since my parents moved me to Italy to hide. A strangled noise claws its way up my throat before I can stop it. It emerges as a half laugh, half sob. My tone comes out sharper than glass. "You didn't know I existed?"
He flinches as if I struck him. "That is not what I said."
"No?" My hands shake. I fight the urge to wrap my arms around myself like armor.
He closes his eyes briefly, as if bracing against an impact. When they open again, they're damp. "Your parents took you and disappeared before I had any chance to stop it. When news came that they had died in the accident, I buried my sister. They said you died with her."
Rage at Salvatore burns through my veins anew, hot and familiar. At the same time, a jagged shard of something else slices through my chest. I grit out, "They lied."
"Yes." He scrubs a hand over his jaw. "I didn't learn you lived until years later, and by then, you were in Salvatore's house, and part of his world."
My vision blurs. Hot moisture gathers, then spills over before I can stop it. I drag the back of my hand across my face, but more follow.
A confession rips from someplace so raw it nearly knocks me backward. "I waited for you. When I was younger, I used to stand at the window and invent stories about why you hadn't come. Every birthday, I pictured you walking in and twirling me in the air." A sob pushes through the words, jagged and humiliating.
His face crumples. Deep lines rearrange, turning his features into something devastated. "I failed you and your mother. I chose what Ithought was the safe path and left you with wolves. I should have turned the world upside down to find out what happened inside that house. I should have dragged you out if I had to crawl through their blood to do it. I did none of that. I stayed away. I told myself you chose the Abruzzos, but I was wrong."
"Chose?" I scoff.
"I'm sorry," he repeats.
The tears come harder, and my chest spasms. I press a hand there, trying to hold everything in as it cracks wider. Part of me wants to rage, to throw every memory at him like knives. Another part hears the wreckage in his voice and recognizes the agony there, different from mine but real. Yet all I can do is silently sob.
He moves before I can step away. One second, I'm standing rigid and shaking in the entryway. Next, his arms wrap around me in a rough, desperate hold. His broad chest anchors solid under my cheek. The scent of expensive soap and regret swirl around us.
For one suspended moment, my body locks. Then something inside me snaps. A sharp sob bursts free, followed by another and another. I clutch the front of his jacket, fingers twisting in the fabric as years of abandoned hope spill out of me. My shoulders shake. I press my face against him, hating that he still makes me feel safe and protected, just like when I was a little girl.
He lowers his chin to the top of my head, one hand cradling the back of my skull. His other arm bands around my back, holding me as if I might disappear. He murmurs, "I'm so sorry, Finzia. I was wrong."
My knees threaten to buckle. His hold tightens, supporting my weight. Tears soak into his suit.
"I hate you," I gasp, the words torn from somewhere deep as another wave of grief crashes through me.
He holds me tighter and says softly, "I know. You have every right."
"And I missed you," I add, the admission ripping my throat raw. "I missed you every single day."
His body jolts as if I stabbed him. His breath shudders against my hair, and I realize he's crying too.
We stand there for what could be seconds or hours. My sobs slowly quiet, turning into softer cries. His hand moves in slow, careful strokes over my back, just like when I was a little girl, and he was my entire world.
Finally, when my throat aches and my head throbs, I pull back.
