I trace the question back through the weeks, searching for the moment when Dmitri Baganov stopped being a problemto solve and became someone I miss. Someone whose absence creates a shape I can feel.
The theater. His mouth on me, his hands gentle despite their strength.
The car ride after. His fingers wrapped around mine as he told me about his father.
The funeral. His eulogy stripping him raw while I watched, helpless to do anything but hold his hand.
Or maybe it started before all of that.
A knock pulls me from my thoughts.
I look up from my laptop to find Valentino standing in my doorway. He wears dark jeans and a gray sweater, his black hair slightly disheveled. The distinguished gray at his temples catches the afternoon light.
"Cousin." He inclines his head. "Do you want to come with me? I'm going to walk in the garden."
I close my laptop without saving my work. "Of course."
We walk through the compound in comfortable silence.
The garden stretches before us, winter-bare but still beautiful. Stone paths wind between dormant rose bushes and skeletal trees. A fountain stands silent at the center, drained for the season.
Valentino breathes deep, his broad shoulders dropping slightly.
"You needed air," I observe.
"The walls close in." He shrugs, a gesture that looks almost apologetic. "I forget how... contained this place feels. Sicily has more space. More sky."
"More sun."
"That too." A ghost of a smile crosses his weathered features. "Though I'm told Chicago summers can be brutal."
"Different kind of brutal. Humid. Sticky. You'll hate it."
We follow the path toward the old oak tree at the garden's edge. Its branches stretch overhead like grasping fingers, bare against the gray sky.
"How are you doing?" I ask. "Really."
Valentino considers the question with the same gravity he brings to everything. His dark eyes scan the garden before settling on me.
"Adjusting." He crosses himself absently, a habit I've noticed he repeats when stressed. "The family here operates differently than I expected. More... modern."
"Is that a criticism?"
"An observation." He pauses beside a dormant rose bush, studying the thorny stems. "In Sicily, we maintain certain traditions. Certain formalities. Here, your brothers hold meetings in kitchens. Lorenzo's wife walks freely through business discussions. Pietro's wife knows things that would get someone killed in the old country."
"Nora earned that trust."
"I don't doubt it." Valentino resumes walking. "I'm not criticizing, Vittoria. I'm learning. Adapting."
The wind picks up, carrying the bite of approaching winter. I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
"How is Sicily? How is aunt?"
"Strong as ever. She sends her love." Valentino's expression softens at the mention of our aunt. "She wanted to come for the Baganov funeral. To support you. I convinced her the travel would be too difficult."
"She would have tried to arrange my wedding herself."
"She would have succeeded." He laughs, a low sound that transforms his stern features. "That woman could negotiate peace between warring nations if she put her mind to it."
