Her hand finds mine before I've fully settled.
Her fingers thread through mine, warm and steady. She doesn't look at me. Doesn't make a show of the gesture. She simply holds on, her grip firm enough to anchor me to this moment.
I stare straight ahead at the priest who has resumed his position at the altar.
Then Vittoria leans her head against my shoulder.
The weight of her settles against me like something I didn't know I was missing. Her hair brushes my jaw, carrying the faint scent of a flower. She fits perfectly into the space beside me as if she was always meant to occupy it.
Whispers ripple through the rows behind us.
I hear them despite the priest's droning voice.
Vittoria doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge the whispers or shift away from me. She keeps her head on my shoulder, her hand wrapped around mine, making a statement louder than any words could.
She knows exactly what she's doing.
She saw an opportunity to strengthen my position and took it without hesitation.
I want to thank her.
The words form in my throat, simple and inadequate.Thank you.Two syllables that couldn't possibly capture what this moment means. What she's given me without being asked.
But I don't trust my voice.
The eulogy stripped something raw inside me. Speaking about my father's private kindnesses, the moments no one else witnessed, cost more than I expected.
If I try to speak, I'm not certain what will come out.
So I remain silent.
The priest's voice washes over us, familiar prayers in Old Church Slavonic that I learned as a child. The words blur together, meaningless sounds that fill the space between heartbeats.
The priest raises his hands, blessing the congregation.
I bow my head with everyone else, but my eyes remain open. Fixed on our intertwined fingers resting on my thigh.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Vittoria
Two days pass like water.
I speak to Dmitri twice. Both times at night, his voice rough with exhaustion, the conversations lasting barely three minutes before he apologizes and promises to call tomorrow.
Goodnight, solnyshko.
Goodnight, Dmitri.
The words become ritual. A thread stretched thin across the distance between us.
I understand. His father just died. He has an empire to secure, alliances to confirm, vultures to fend off.
I understand all of this.
But understanding doesn't stop the hollow ache that settles beneath my ribs when I reach for my phone and find no messages.
When did this happen?
