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Her thumb brushed a tear from my cheek. I wanted to tell her Henry might never know. He might live his whole life believing Illyria was the only mother who had loved him. But motherhood was not measured by whether a child witnessed the sacrifice. Salvatore had taught me that love could remain true even when it had to remain unseen.

“I’ll live in the present if you will,” Mom said.

The present felt impossibly large. It held a dead husband, an unreachable son, a newly discovered father, and a Russian man whose kindness had followed me across state lines. I couldn’t promise to love it. I could only promise not to abandon it before it had finished becoming whatever came next.

I nodded and managed a small smile. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” Mom wiped her face and drew a breath that steadied both of us. “Let’s have some wine and go through these papers.”

An hour later, the bottle was empty, and the papers had not become any easier to bear. When the elevator bell rang, Mom looked up before the doors opened. Cian stepped into the apartment, and her face softened at the sight of him.

“You’re home.”

“I am.” He smiled, but it stopped short of his eyes.

“Hi, Dad.”

Cian came to me first. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, but the tension in his shoulders told me something had followed him home. “Hey, sweetheart. Liam is downstairs to make sure you get home safely. I need to talk to your mom.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. Whatever had happened, he was trying not to bring it into the room with me still there. Mom nodded when I looked at her, wearing a smile neither of us believed.

I hugged her before collecting my coat. “Remember what I said, Mom.”

The elevator doors closed on my parents standing several feet apart, each carrying love as if it were another secret that could ruin the person brave enough to uncover it.

On the way down, I touched Salvatore’s ring beneath my sweater and thought about the promise I had made. I had not agreed to forget him, replace him, or look for another version of what death had taken. I had only promised to stop treating every living feeling as a betrayal.

I would try. The promise was no larger than the one I had once made to survive until morning, but that smaller promise had carried me through four years without Salvatore.

For tonight, trying would have to be enough.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Early Summer 2025, Boston

Moments after my mother promised to live in the present, Cian sent her back into the past.

I didn’t understand why. Fear had always dressed itself as sacrifice in our family, but Cian refused to name the thing that frightened him. He looked at the two women he loved, decided distance could protect us better than honesty, and sent Mom away from his apartment. Then he withheld just enough truth to keep her from forgiving him and called the wound mercy.

Mom moved into Uncle Sal’s house and filled her days with work. Cian buried himself in his office. I traveled between them until their silence became another inheritance neither of them meant to leave me, carrying careful half-truths from one wounded parent to the other.

After weeks of watching them ignore each other, I needed somewhere their love couldn’t reach me.

I found the restaurant on a narrow North End street, tucked between a bakery and a shop with hand-painted bowls arranged in the window. It had no polished marble, no famous chef, and no private room waiting for men who required secrecy before they sat down. The tables were small and close together, candlelight warmed the exposed brick, and the air carried garlic, tomatoes, fresh bread, and the red wine breathing in a glass near my hand.

It was not Piccola Cucina, but grief had never required accuracy. Sometimes a scent was enough to rebuild an entire room.

Salvatore took me to Piccola Cucina shortly after we met. I had been so nervous I claimed I wasn’t hungry, so he ordered enough food for six people and watched plate after plate arrive while I stared at him in disbelief.

“Are we expecting your family?” I asked.

“God, no. I’m trying to have a pleasant evening.” His mouth curved when I laughed. He pushed a plate toward me. “I’m also trying to discover which version of you appears after she’s properly fed.”

“What if you don’t like her?”

Salvatore leaned across the table, his green eyes holding mine until the restaurant disappeared around us. “Then I’ll order dessert and meet the next one.”

The memory left a smile on my mouth and tears in my eyes. Grief had a cruel kind of precision; it returned happiness exactly as it had been, then reminded my body there would never be another moment added to it.