Cat sits up straighter. She takes in my parents the way a professional takes in a room, then sets her shoulders and extends her hand to my father. “SignorRossi,” she says, giving him the courtesy he has earned and none of the deference he might expect. “Thank you.”
He studies her offered hand, then takes it. Old-world formality meets the woman who dragged herself up off a blood-slick floor to save our daughter. “You kept my son and my granddaughter alive,” he murmurs. “For that I owe you the balance of my days.”
A long breath leaves Cat’s body. The wary line at the corner of her mouth eases a fraction. “I intend to keep doing that,” she replies. “With your son’s help, of course.”
“Good.” And that single syllable is a blessing.
The door opens again. Leo’s mother stands there with a tissue crushed in one fist and that brave, destroyed look all good mothers wear at funerals. “Matteo,” she says. “Your friend said you wished to speak with me.”
I slip out, take the paper from Livia, and put it in the woman’s hands. “From my daughter,” I tell her. “For your son.”
She unfolds it. The smile aches through her grief like light through stained glass. “He would have liked that star,” she whispers. “He always wanted to be one.”
“He already was.” I swallow hard. “I will look after his family the way he looked after mine.” But no amount of money can make up for a life.
She nods once, then turns away.
When I slide back into the limo, my mother is telling Livia about a drawer she will keep in our kitchen for crayons and emergency cookies. My father is pretending not to listen while he does nothing but listen. Cat watches them both with carefuleyes that begin to release something I have been trying to unknit since Sicily.
“You faked your death,” my father says without looking at me.
“I did,” I answer.
“You inconvenienced my operations, terrified your mother, and cost us a good man.”
“I know.”
He finally turns. “Do not do it again unless the only alternative is the ground.”
“Understood.”
The edge in him eases, then he makes the tiniest gesture toward Livia. “Bring her to Sunday lunch. Your mother will combust if you do not.”
“Nonno,” Livia interrupts, tugging his coat sleeve, “do you like cake?”
A sound shocks out of him, half laugh, half cough. “I have been known to survive a slice.”
“Good,” she announces. “Because I am hungry.”
My mother pats her knee. “So is Grammy.” She shoots me a look. “I want to see her daily.”
“We literally just arrived and need to get settled.”
“Then settle faster.”
I reach across and take Cat’s hand. She lets me. The city continues moving all around us, rain-glossed and reflective like it’s deciding whether to bless us. For once, I choose to believe it will.
Outside, men move like tides and business continues because it always does. Inside the limo, my daughter holds my father’s hand and my mother plans desserts and Cat, fierce and tired, breathes easier than she did yesterday.
Leo should be here to see this. He isn’t. So I make a note on whatever ledger decides what I owe this city. Then I kiss Cat’s knuckles and say the only thing that fits the day.
“Let’s take Livia home.”
CHAPTER 53
A HOME
Matteo
