“Not at all.” His eyes close briefly. “We were raised as if Giancarlo and Marianna were our birth parents. And given how young we were, within months I was the only one who remembered otherwise.”
“You didn’t tell your siblings? Do they know now?”
“I played make-believe for a long time. I think it helped me distance myself from the trauma. But eventually I told mybrothers the truth. Eliseo was sixteen, and Miko eighteen, when I sat them both down.”
“What about Aurelia?”
He looks away, a muscle shifting in his jaw. “She doesn’t know.”
I school my expression, hiding the hollow ache that carves through my chest. “Not about any of it?”
“Some truths do more damage than the secrets they replace.”
I sit with his confession. Turn it over in my mind. Contemplate how his past would’ve shaped the man he’s become. “That must be an incredibly heavy burden to bear.”
He gives a one-shouldered shrug, a casual gesture that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s how it has to be.”
I don’t know how to respond.
This moment is too raw for platitudes. The seriousness too intense for silence. I settle on the first question that comes to mind. “And Marianna? Where is she?”
He stills, the steady rhythm of his thumb pausing for a single telling beat. “There was a car accident when Eli and Aurelia were three. Giancarlo went from praying for children to becoming a widowed father of four in the blink of an eye.”
My heart pangs as I struggle to imagine the pain they must have endured.
Especially Raffael.
He didn’t just lose one mother—he lost two. Yet he continues to soothe me with his touch, the quiet reassurance now clearly for my benefit.
“It’s okay.” His mouth lifts in a faint, wry smile. “Given the circumstances, I turned out alright, didn’t I?”
Despite the sarcasm, I agree. He’s perfect. Maybe a little rough around edges, but still breathtakingly worthy.
“You did.” I hug my arm around him, placing a kiss to his throat. “Do you miss Italy?”
“I visit often.”
“I know, but obviously it’s not the same.”
“Youknow?” He tickles my ribs.
“Yes.” I squirm. Squeal. “You vacation there every year. You’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve known you. And before you make a stalker claim, the reason I know is because your assistant has consistently forgotten to RSVP your attendance for the CrossPoint Christmas party since the dawn of time. My PA complained about having to chase her for years until I told her to stop bothering.”
His grin is slow and subtle, the most delicious curve of lips. “You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve had her fired.”
I snort, thankful his mood has lightened. “Because she forgot to make a phone call?”
“Because she wasted your valuable time.”
Butterflies spread their wings inside my belly, preparing to take flight.
“Don’t believe me?” he asks. “You should enquire with my staff about the intern who made a lewd remark about you prior to one of your first meetings with our company. He was unemployed before you arrived.”
Those butterflies take flight, flapping like prehistoric vultures. “You fired him over a lewd comment?”
He holds my gaze, his eyes dark and unflinching. “It was more of a sexualized compliment that I guess I didn’t appreciate.”
Raffael Cavallo doesn’t guess. He knows. And the understated admission lands like a physical blow, leaving me reeling and aching with the burden of a future I can’t bear to lose.
