But hearing my son’s name from this stranger’s mouth feels like a hand reaching into my chest.
“Yes,” I say carefully. “Nico.”
Enzo nods, as if committing it to memory with reverence. “A beautiful name,” he says. “Strong. Clean.”
Marco smirks. “He gets it from me.”
Enzo’s smile stays in place. “Children are gifts,” he says, ignoring Marco’s comment without making it obvious. “Fresh blood in a family is… precious.”
Fresh blood.
The phrase should sound harmless.
It doesn’t.
It slides across my nerves like silk over a blade.
Enzo tilts his head as if noticing my reaction. Noticing everything.
“Forgive me,” he says gently. “That sounded… clinical. Old habits. I only mean, children are hope. And this family could use some hope.”
My mouth is dry. I just nod because nodding is safe.
Marco leans closer to him, voice low, smug. “I told you. I’m doing the right thing.”
Enzo’s gaze flicks to Marco with something like approval. “It’s a good story,” Enzo says.
I hold my smile. My face is starting to ache from the effort.
Enzo looks back at me. “And you,” he says quietly. “How are you holding up?”
The question is so unexpected, I almost choke on it. No one has asked me that in weeks without it being a trap. My first instinct is to lie. To say “fine.” To say “busy.” To say “grateful.” But his eyes make my throat tighten.
“Fine,” I say, anyway.
He doesn’t call me on it. He nods like he understands exactly what “fine” means when it comes out of a woman’s mouth like that.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Enzo says. “It matters.”
To who? To the judge? To the newspapers? To Marco’s ego? I don’t ask.
Enzo glances toward the auction hall. “I should make rounds. Ensure the right people feel seen.” Then, with a final warm look, almost paternal, he says, “Try to enjoy yourself, Lucia. If you need anything tonight, you only have to ask.”
The kindness lands in my chest like a small, dangerous relief. Because it’s been so long since anyone offered help without attaching a hook.
Enzo steps away. And I realize I’m still watching him when he disappears into the crowd. His warmth lingers, faint and comforting in the way a blanket is comforting even if you don’t know who put it there.
My shoulders lower by a fraction. Just a fraction.
And that small release feels like a mistake the second it happens.
Marco notices. He always notices when my guard shifts, even slightly. His fingers tighten on my arm.
“Don’t get cute,” he murmurs, smiling at a passing couple.
“I’m not,” I say through my teeth.
Marco’s smile doesn’t falter. “Vitale likes you,” he says, like that’s a warning. “That could be useful.”
