"Papa?"
"My daughter." His voice broke completely. "My baby girl."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Both my daughters—I failed both of you. And now she's—" He couldn't finish.
We cried together over the phone. Father and daughter, grieving the complicated, flawed person who'd connected us and torn us apart.
"There will be arrangements," I said finally. "When they bring her home. A funeral."
"I'll handle it. You shouldn't have to—not whilst you're pregnant."
"Okay."
"Paola?" His voice was raw. "Can I—would it be alright if I came to see you? Today? I know I don't have the right to ask, but—"
I looked at Cesare, who nodded.
"Yes. Come over. We should—we should talk. About Bianca. About everything."
"Thank you. I'll be there this afternoon."
After I hung up, Cesare asked, "Are you okay?"
"No. But I will be."
"Do you want to cancel the ultrasound today? We can reschedule."
The anatomy scan. Twenty weeks. I'd completely forgotten.
"No," I decided. "Life doesn't stop because someone dies. And Bianca wouldn't want—" I stopped. "Actually, I have no idea what Bianca would want. I never really knew her at all."
"You knew the version of her she showed you."
"Which was all lies."
"Not all of it. The childhood you shared—that was real. Whatever came after, you had that."
He was right. Somewhere beneath the betrayal and drugs and running away, there had been a little girl who'd been my best friend. My other half.
And now she was gone.
I placed both hands on my belly, felt Lucia moving beneath my palms. "I'm going to tell her about Bianca. When she's oldenough. Not the terrible parts—or not just those. But who Bianca was before everything went wrong."
"That's kind of you."
"It's honest. Bianca was complicated. Flawed. But she was still my sister." Tears threatened again. "And now she'll never meet Lucia. Never get a chance to be Auntie Bianca. Never—"
Cesare pulled me close again. "I know. I'm sorry."
We stood like that, holding each other, grieving the person Bianca could have been if she'd made different choices.
Giovanni arrived that afternoon carrying something large, covered with a blanket.
He looked older than when I'd seen him months ago. Grief had aged him overnight—deeper lines, grayer hair, shoulders bowed under invisible weight.
"Paola." His voice cracked.
