Instead, I feel something that might be peace.
“Would you hate me?” I ask the photograph quietly. “For choosing her over justice? For abandoning the plan because I fell in love?”
The frozen smile offers no answers, no absolution. But somehow I think Marco would understand. He always believed in redemption, in choosing to be better than your worst impulses.
He would have liked Gigi. The thought hits me with unexpected force. Marco would have appreciated her intelligence, her compassion, her ability to see the humanity in people despite their worst actions.
He would have told me to let go of revenge and choose love instead.
The realization makes my chest ache with grief that’s different from what I’ve carried for three years. Not the raw, consuming rage that drove me to plan Antonio’s destruction. But a gentler sadness—mourning what Marco never got to have, what was taken from him before he could find his own happiness.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the photo. “I’m sorry I don’t think I can follow through. I’m sorry that the woman who’s made me want to be better is the daughter of the man who helped get you killed. I’m sorry that choosing her feels like betraying you.”
The words hang in the empty study, and I wait for—what? Some sign that Marco’s ghost approves? Some flash of certainty that I’m making the right choice?
But there’s nothing. Just silence and the weight of a decision I still haven’t fully made.
The door opens behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Gigi. I can feel her presence and sense the slight shift in the air that happens whenever she’s near.
“Hey,” she says softly, rapping her knuckles gently on the door. “Danny said you’ve been in here for hours. Everything okay?”
I turn to face her. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized sweater, her wavy brown hair cascading down her back. But the concern in her expression makes the guilt wound fester. She’s worried about me. Actually worried, like my wellbeing matters to her.
“Just thinking,” I manage.
She moves closer, her eyes catching on the photographs spread across my desk. “About Marco?”
“About a lot of things.” I reach for her hand, pulling her into the space between my legs as I sit on the edge of the desk. I rub my thumb over her knuckles, relishing how perfectly our hands fit together. “About how much has changed in two weeks.”
“Good changes?” There’s vulnerability in her voice, like she needs reassurance.
“The best changes,” I assure her. “Gigi, you’ve—” I stop, struggling with how to articulate this without revealing too much. “You’ve made me remember what it feels like to be human instead of just angry.”
Her hands come up to frame my face, and I lean into her touch, even though I don’t deserve it. “You were never just angry, Luca. You were grieving. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I can’t help but ask. God, I don’t deserve her. She has every reason to hate me, but she has chosen forgiveness. It makes my heart squeeze like there’s a band around it. “Because from where I’m sitting, the things I’ve done in Marco’s name look a lot more like rage than grief.”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t try to deny it, which is one of the things I love about her—the honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable. “But you’re choosing to be different now. That has to count for something.”
Does it? Can choosing to be better now somehow balance out the harm I’ve already caused? The clinic I destroyed, the life I ruined, the father I’ve imprisoned?
The father I’m still lying about.
“Your dad,” I hear myself say, the words escaping before I can think better of them. “You’ve been asking about him.”
Her entire body goes rigid, hope and fear warring in her expression. “Yes?” she whispers, her face paling.
“He’s—” I stop, trying to figure out how to tell her without revealing the full scope of what I’ve kept from her. “He’s recovering better than I told you. The medical care has helped. He’s—he’s going to be okay, Gigi.”
The relief that floods her face is immediate, and it makes me hate myself even more. “Really?” she whispers, her lips white. “You’re not just saying that to?—”
“I’m not.” I pull her closer, needing her to believe this even if I can’t tell her everything else. “I’ve given orders that he’s to be treated well, that his recovery is a priority. And when he’s stronger—” I swallow hard. “When he’s stronger, I’ll arrange for you to see him.”
“When?” The question comes out desperate. “How soon?”
“Soon.” It’s the same non-answer I’ve been giving her since the wedding, but this time I mean it. “I promise, Gigi. Soon.”
She throws her arms around my neck, holding on tight enough that I can feel her heartbeat racing against mine. “Thank you,” she whispers fiercely, her hands threading into my hair. I lean into her touch, even though I don’t deserve to. “Thank you, Luca. You have no idea what this means to me.”
