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“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words barely make it out, and my hands tremble against his shirt. “I’m so sorry for hurting you, Dante.”

He kisses my forehead. It’s not romantic, but it’s a goodbye that tries not to call itself one.

“You did nothing wrong,” he murmurs against my skin. “Do not turn this into another reason to hate yourself.”

Then, he lets go.

The loss of his warmth hits me like ice water. I squeeze my eyes shut, teeth grinding together, fighting with every ounce of strength left in my body to hold back the violent, suffocating sob clawing its way up my chest.

I hear the rustle of his coat. The slow cadence of his footsteps across the floor. The quiet, heavy click as the bedroom door opens, then latches shut.

He’s gone.

I clamp my hand over my mouth as a sob rises up from somewhere deep and animal inside me. I force it down. I try to swallow it. I try to breathe through the pressure in my throat.

I force myself off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold tiles. My legs are trembling, barely holding my weight, but I need air. I shove the glass French doors open and stumble out onto the wide stone balcony.

My hands shake violently as I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I don’t hesitate. I don’t think. My thumb hits the screen, dialing the one number that has anchored me since the day I was born.

It doesn’t even ring twice. The line connects instantly as if she had been sitting in the dark with the phone clutched in her hands, waiting for me. She is always waiting for me.

“Maksim?”

The sound of her voice—soft, trembling with immediate motherly intuition, carrying every ounce of warmth I deliberately ran away from—destroys the last shred of my defenses.

I completely lose it.

“Mom…” I manage to gasp out between violent, uncontrollable sobs. My knees buckle, and I sink down against the stone railing of the balcony, curling in on myself as three months of buried agony, shame, and exhaustion tear through my ribs.

“Oh, Maksim,” she breathes, her voice cracking with instant, bottomless grief. “Oh, my poor baby.”

I can’t speak. I can’t form a single coherent sentence. I just sit on the cold stone floor of a foreign villa, clutching the phone to my ear like a lifeline, crying so hard that my chest heaves in agonizing, breathless spasms. Every wall I built in Italy, every lie I told myself about being cured, dissolves into salt and tears.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” she begs, her voice breaking on the other end of the line, three thousand miles away. “Please, Maksim, talk to Mama. What happened? Tell me what hurts.”

I press the heel of my trembling hand against my eyes, trying to drag enough air into my lungs to make a sound.

“I miss you,” I whisper, the confession tearing out of me raw and broken, sounding like a frightened child lost in the dark. “Mom… I miss you. I miss him. I miss everyone so much.”

A soft, choked sob escapes her.

“Come home,” she pleads, her desperation wrapping around my fractured heart. “Please, come home to me. Come home to your family, my dear boy. Just come home.”

Chapter 33

TRISTAN

The gym is loud enough to make my teeth ache.

The ball strikes hardwood in a steady, punishing rhythm. Shoes shriek across the court. The crowd surges and settles in waves, each cheer ricocheting off the bleachers and the high ceiling.

My brother is playing well.

I know that because I have watched him take the same shot twice and heard the crowd erupt both times.

I could not tell anyone the score if they put a gun to my head.

I’m staring at the empty wooden space on the bleachers to my right. If things were different—if I weren’t the coward I proved myself to be—Maksim would be sitting there.