He stops in front of the chair I’ve claimed in the waiting room. “Talk to me.”
I don’t look at him when I speak. Instead, I stare at the floor between my feet. “The mother of my child and our son… I want you to help them leave.”
He exhales through his nose. “I see. I wasn’t aware you had a child. Congratulations.”
I continue, ignoring the question. The words taste like ash in my mouth. “I want them both safe. New identities. Clean papers. I don’t want them having to worry about anything coming up if they want to travel. Put them in a place no one, not even me, can find them. You still have contacts in Lisbon?”
“Better than Lisbon. A small island off the Azores. Quiet. Wealthy expats. They’ll fit right in. It’s beautiful this time of year.”
I nod once, lacing my fingers together, knuckles whitening as I squeeze. I crack them one by one, the small flares of pain helping to anchor me to something physical, something I can control. “Make it happen. I’ll pay your fee once they’re out of the country.”
“Dante.” He says my name differently this time. Not like a contractor taking instruction but like a man watching another step toward the edge of a cliff. “Are you sure about this?”
It’s the first time he’s ever asked me that. Nicolo Baresi does not question decisions. He executes them without restraint. For him to be giving me an out when he has never done so before is… telling.
I must look like hell for him to be that concerned.
When I finally meet his eyes, I nod. “She’s… I know she wants to leave. I just… want her to do it safely. Especially since she’s taking our child with her. If that means leaving me behind, then so be it.”
He studies me for a long moment, then inclines his head. “I’ll need twenty-four hours. Maybe less if I pull some strings tonight.”
My jaw tightens. “She doesn’t know I’m doing this. I’ll create the opening for you to come in tomorrow and talk to her. I… would rather her not know I’m behind this. She’s not likely to trust it if she thinks I’m pulling the strings.”
He doesn’t argue, just clasps my shoulder once with a hard squeeze before nodding and disappearing down the corridor he’d come from.
When I finally return to her room, Elena is still asleep.
I sit in my chair and watch them, soaking them in for as long as I still have them. Tomorrow, I’ll pretend to take a call and step into the hallway, leaving the door cracked just enough for Nicolo to slip in. He’ll offer her the escape I can’t give her myself, and if she takes it—if she walks away with our son and never looks back—I’ll let her.
Because loving her means giving her the choice even when that choice breaks me. Even when it means I’ll spend the rest of mylife pretending I’m still whole while I walk around with a dead heart.
I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees and drop my face into my hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll give her the keys to a door I’ll never be able to walk through.
And I will do so because I love her.
The following afternoon, after receiving confirmation from Nicolo that he’s arrived at the hospital, I excuse myself from Elena’s room under the guise of taking an important call.
She’s propped up in bed, the color slowly having returned to her cheeks. Luca is tucked against her side with a toy car I bought down at the gift shop for him this morning clutched in his fist. For a split second, I hesitate at the doorway, my hand resting on the frame longer than necessary.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. “I’m going to head to the waiting room to take this.”
It’s not technically a lie, but she looks at me like she always does when she senses something shifting beneath the surface. She’s too tired to call it out, though. All she manages to give me is a half smile in return.
I don’t let myself think about that.
I step into the corridor and pull my phone up to my ear, pacing two steps away before leaning back against the wall. My thumbruns against the edge of it, a prop to make this look routine if anyone bothers to glance my way while walking by.
My eyes remain locked on the elevator doors down the hall. When it finally chimes, my heart thuds hard in my chest.
The doors slide open slowly, indifferent to the fact that they’re delivering the man who is about to rip my life in half. Nicolo steps out with his hands folding inside his coat pockets. Dressed in tailored all black from head to toe, he looks less like an underworld fixer and more like a diplomat walking into a negotiation.
I hate this.
I hate every second of it.
But I hate the alternative more.
