“I don’t think that far ahead anymore.”
She frowns but doesn’t push. She never does. That’s her way: quiet concern, gentle questions, never demands.
Alessia’s the opposite. She’ll drag the truth out of you kicking and screaming if she has to. And right now, I think she’s close.
“So…” Alessia says after a moment. “You’ve really accepted that what happened with Nicolo is just…what, over?”
I stir my coffee again. The spoon clinks against the porcelain.
“It’s done.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You loved him,” she says, not asking.
I meet her eyes. “That’s exactly why it had to end.”
She exhales, muttering something under her breath in Italian that sounds a lot likeidiots, both of you.
Valentina gives her a look. “Enough.”
Alessia shrugs. “I’m just saying. He’s a fool, and she’s pretending she’s not heartbroken. It’s exhausting.”
“I’m sitting right here,” I say quietly.
“I know. That’s the problem.”
The waiter returns with another round of drinks: Valentina’s tea, Alessia’s sparkling water, my untouched coffee reheated. I murmur a thank you and lift the cup, hands steady even though my stomach feels like glass.
It’s not that I don’t think about him. I do. Constantly. Everywhere I go, he’s there—in the smell of smoke on the street, in the sound of thunder at night, in the echo of my own name when someone says it too softly.
But I’ve learned how to compartmentalize. How to take something that once felt like fire and lock it behind glass. Safe. Contained. Unreachable. It’s the only way to breathe.
“Eli says the guest list’s nearly finalized,” Valentina says, steering the conversation elsewhere. “Apparently, the Chernovs are flying in from Moscow.”
“Great,” I say, trying to sound like I care. “More strangers.”
Alessia snorts. “You say that like Eli won’t have half the Italian press invited too.”
“I’ve stopped asking,” I admit. “He says it’s for protection. I think it’s for pride.”
Valentina hums thoughtfully. “Probably both.”
“Probably neither,” I mutter.
She glances at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “You know, when I married into the Camorra, I thoughtI understood what sacrifice meant.” She stirs her tea slowly. “Turns out it just means learning how to live with what you lose.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. She knows I understand.
The sunlight shifts, slipping through the awning and casting lines across the table. Alessia squints at it, then pulls her sunglasses back on.
“This place needs better shade. Or more alcohol.”
“You’re driving,” Valentina reminds her.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t threaten to drink.”
