He shrugs lightly. "He needs a space that's his."
The simplicity of it nearly undoes me. Because everything is moving so fast, I can barely get my footing. One moment I'm surviving—holding things together with duct tape and stubbornness—and the next I'm standing in Massimo'spenthouse, watching him plan a future like it's the most natural thing in the world.
My chest tightens. I don't know what to think. Not really. I know what Ifeel, and that's the problem. I want him. Not in the dizzy, reckless way people talk about wanting. Not in a way that ignores reality. I want him because losing him once nearly destroyed me, and finding him again feels like something I don't get to squander. We've already lost ten years. Ten years of silence and wrong assumptions and pain that calcified into habit. I don't want to waste another day pretending I don't know what I want when I finally do.
I want to be with him.
Finally.
There are also the practicalities to consider—to pacify my logical mind.
If we didn't stay here, where would we go?
Back to my house? The thought makes my stomach twist. That place is heavy with ghosts, arguments whispered behind closed doors, cold dinners, and Amauri learning how to make himself small. I don't want to drag my son back into a space where every corner holds a memory I worked so hard to survive.
Take him somewhere else? A temporary place? Another in-between? We've lived in limbo long enough. Moving in here—into Massimo's world, his penthouse, his life—feels inevitable and terrifying all at once. Not because I don't want it, but because it makes everythingreal.
The real question is: who do I owe an explanation to? My father? A dark chuckle escapes me. Friends who watched me build a life they never really understood? Or do I finally get to choose without having to justify myself to anyone? My gaze drifts to Massimo—already thinking three steps ahead—and something steadies inside me. He isn't rushing me. He's making space. For Amauri. For me. For whatever comes next.
I don't have the answers yet. But I know this: I'm done living half a life. Done planning around absence. Done choosing safety over truth. Whatever this becomes—wherever we land—I want to walk into it with him and never let go. Before I can think too deeply, I grab his hand and pull him into the kitchen.
"Sit."
He raises a brow but obeys, settling onto one of the stools, watching me with open amusement as I move around the counter on autopilot. Bread. Mustard. Pastrami. Pickles.
"You're still in love with pastrami?" I ask over my shoulder.
"As if there's any better sandwich," he replies solemnly, making me laugh. The sound is easy, familiar. God, I've missed this. I set the sandwich onto a plate and slide it across the counter to him.
"Eat," I order. "You look like you've already had a hard morning." He hesitates, just a beat. "No secrets," I remind him gently. "That goes both ways."
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
"I had a talk with Enzo this morning; he's clean," he fills me in. "He acted on what Bello told him. Nothing more."
Relief loosens something in my shoulders.
"And…" he adds carefully, "Damiano is questioning Whitford."
My stomach drops.
"Questioning," I repeat, because it's easier than saying what I'm actually thinking. I know what that word means in his world. I've lived adjacent to power long enough not to be naïve.
I'm also acutely aware of him watching my face, gauging, measuring. Waiting to see where I'll flinch. Where I'll fold. If I want to be his partner in this, I can't. I have to man up, so to speak. I have to be willing to cross lines I never thought I would. I know he'd happily shield me, keep me comfortable, insulated, living a life of luxury and carefully curated ignorance. But it's apath that would have to be paved with lies. And lies always rot eventually.
If I want him, really want him, I have to takeallof him. The good. The bad. And the very ugly. The thought of what that means for Amauri tightens something deep in my chest. But the truth is, I already made that choice the moment I asked Massimo to save him. I changed my son's life irrevocably that day. There is no world where Massimo lets me walk away with Amauri now. And if I'm honest, I don't think I want to. Not even for Amauri. Or maybebecauseof him. Because if everything that's happened has taught me anything, it's this: there is exactly one man capable of keeping us safe in the world we're standing in now. That man is currently eating my fucking pastrami sandwich. I swallow and straighten my spine.
"Who is Damiano?" I ask calmly.
It's not denial. It's a choice. Massimo's gaze sharpens into respect. "One of my capos. You'll meet them all."
I nod once. My hands curl briefly against the counter, then relax. "Okay."
That's it. No flinching. No retreat. He exhales slowly, like he didn't realize he'd been holding his breath. He takes a bite of the sandwich, eyes never leaving me.
"Thank you." We both know it's not for the food.
I lean against the counter, watching him eat, feeling the strange steadiness settling between us. We're not pretending anymore. We're learning how to stand in the truth, together.
