Page 39 of Accidental Alliance

I push off the door and turn toward the sound of his voice. Pull it together. “Yes, baby. Grab your backpack and get your shoes on.”

He bounds down the hallway with his cleats in hand, his honey-gold eyes sparkling with excitement as he sprints for the door to grab his backpack. I ruffle his dark hair and pull him into a hug that lasts a second too long.

He blinks up at me when I finally let go. “You okay, Mom?”

“Absolutely,” I lie, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

We step outside into the warm morning air, hand in hand. The peaceful town stretches around us, the illusion of safety I have fought years to maintain. But the shadows of my past have never truly disappeared.

They only wait for the right moment to strike.

And today, they have found me once again.

8

ISABELLA

I cup my hand over my eyes as I watch Matteo dart across the field with a ball in front of him, his dark hair bouncing with each step and his honey-gold eyes narrowed in fierce concentration as he lines up his shot.

For one suspended second, everything slows.

There is only my son in motion, all wiry limbs and stubborn determination, the mid-morning sun catching across the crown of his head as he drives forward with that same relentless focus he brings to everything now, whether it is soccer or math homework or insisting he can absolutely bring all the groceries from the car without dropping them the second his feet cross into the entryway.

He leans into the kick at the last possible second, then his foot connects. The ball sails straight ahead, swooping hard past the goalie and catches into the back of the net.

A cheer erupts around the field.

Matteo throws both arms into the air in triumph, his face splitting into a grin with pure, incandescent joy just before three of his teammates barrel into him at once and tackle him to the grass in a laughing, chaotic pile of limbs.

The other boys swarm after them while the referee blows his whistle to get them all back onto the field to play another round.

A few of the parents next to me clap from the sidelines and nod in my direction with easy, warm approval.

“Great shot,” one of the fathers says.

“He’s getting so good,” another mother adds with a smile that reaches her eyes.

I smile back without using my teeth because that is what Marina Hayes does. I stand among them in my simple navy sweater and jeans, my hair pulled back in its usual low knot, and clap with the rest while my stomach twists into knots that have nothing to do with the game.

This should be an ordinary Sunday like any other—a chilly morning turning warm by noon.

Folding chairs dug into the damp grass a few feet from the sidelines, parents sipping their lukewarm coffees and shouting words of encouragement, little kids dressed in oversized jerseys charging up and down the field as if a neighborhood rec league somehow carries the same importance of a world cup.

This is the kind of day I used to ache for without even understanding exactly what I was looking for. From the outside, that is exactly what this looks like.

No one knows that I’ve scanned the perimeter of this field three separate times before kickoff and memorized every parked car near the entrance.

They do not know that I chose this spot on the sidelines because it gives me a clear view of the lot, the path to the bathrooms, and the road beyond the concessions stand because my pulse has been running too fast since the start of this week.

Davide’s visit has settled under my skin like poison, slowly spreading like a cancer I am beginning to no longer be able to ignore. It has changed everything around me without altering a single visible thing.

I clap again as Matteo untangles himself from the heap of laughing boys and gets back to his feet, grinning so hard, the gap in his front teeth show where it is still growing.

He glances toward the sideline immediately, searching for me.

I lift my hand and wave when his eyes latch onto me. His face brightens impossibly further before he runs off toward the opposite end of the field to join the other boys.

He has no idea that while he sleeps at night, I lie awake and replay every word Davide had said until dawn starts peeking through my windows. Or how guilty I feel to turn down one of my father’s closest allies. I still have not found a version of this that ends without something dragging us back into a world I thought I left behind years ago.