Chapter 40

Layla

I’d agreed to dinner with Aldo at the estate simply because I was home and I had to eat. Might as well let someone else cook for me for once, right? If the payoff meant including Aldo in the family meal … I could live with that for a night.

It wasn’t like Aldo’s personal chef wouldn’t be whipping up a meal anyway. Right?

What I hadn’t counted on was the backdrop of soft candlelight that threw the sprawling dining room into soft shades of umber and gold. The mouthwatering scent of roasted lamb and thyme potatoes that melted the usually museum-like coldness of the manor. The way the flickering lights softened Aldo’s features into a muted watercolor blur.

The way he almost looked like my Vasco again.

He was smiling, more than he had in weeks. Eli, too, and he chattered away—about school, the project he was working on, the book he’d read, soccer practice …

For one moment, I almost let myself believe that this was reality—that we were a family. Or maybe it was just that I couldn’t look away from Vasco’s soft smile. It was beautiful—

Then Carlo strode into the room without pausing, and the moment shattered.

“Whatever you’re going to say,” I spoke before he could, “You can say in front of me.”

Carlo’s jaw tightened as he looked to Aldo for permission, but Aldo merely nodded and put down his fork. His face had hardened back to its cold mask. “Go ahead.”

Had I imagined my Vasco at the table?

“It’s Marco.” Carlo’s eyes skated towards me. “He’s alive.”

My jaw clenched, but this wasn’t news, not really. As much as I’d tried to put him out of my mind, I’d known the possibility—the probability—that he was still alive. That he’d come back.

“We think the Moretti family might be ready to make another move,” Carlo added, and those were the words that froze the air colder than ice. My fingers went white with tightness around my fork.

I’d known, and yet, shock and horror still shuddered through me.

I shoved my chair back. That fork clattered to my plate, the clang of metal against ceramic echoing through the stillness. I didn’t pause.

Without a word, I strode from the room, my shoes a faint tap on the hardwood hallway. My breath felt too short, too shallow, and my heart thudded like a second set of footfalls.

In my room, I paced. I’d known he was alive. I’d feared his retribution. This wasn’t anything new. And yet, it was a cruel reminder that my world was forever changed—that my life would always teeter on the brink of fear.

Safety was an illusion, but even the illusion couldn’t withstand the brutality of this new life. And no matter how hard I tried to separate myself from it, I would always, always be pulled back in.

A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts.

A soft voice followed in its wake. “Mommy?”

Shit. What kind of mother was I—I’d marched out of that room and left Eli alone with that news. With … with his father. The damned Mafia king.

I scrubbed the remnants of angry tears from my eyes. “Come in, baby.”

Eli pushed through the door into the room. His blond hair was ruffled, like maybe he’d run his hands through it, but his blue eyes were serious. Dry.

He looked older and younger than his eight years all at once.

He climbed up onto the bed, folded his legs beneath him, and regarded me with a cool blue stare. “Are you okay?”

“That should be me asking you,” I said. I sat on the bed beside him, tucked him into my side. “I’m okay. Just a lot on my mind.”

“Is it about Marco?” Eli asked, his voice muffled against my sweater.

“Yeah. And everything that comes with it.”

“Marco’s a bad man.” Eli sat back to look at me, blue eyes round and wide. “Right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, he is.”

“But Mr. Marcello isn’t.” Eli dropped his gaze to fidget with the hem of his shirt.

I huffed out an iconic laugh at that. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, Eli.”

“He isn’t!” His gaze snapped back up to mine, eyes bright with conviction. He’s the opposite. “He’s good. He’s … He’s trying so hard to make you happy.”

The words startled me into silence. How was I supposed to respond to that? He was trying, that was the truth. He was trying so much, even Eli had noticed.

“He’s trying because he feels guilty,” I said faintly.

“You’re home for dinner with me more,” Eli continued, his voice almost pleading. “And it’s because Mr. Marcello bought the hospital, isn’t it?”

I would never understand how my son knew so much. Either he had bigger ears than I realized, or he had a future career in investigative journalism.

Maybe both.

Either way, he had a talent for knowing things he shouldn’t.

“It’s not that simple—”

“He loves you,” Eli said, and laid out like that, it sounded pretty damn simple, didn’t it? “And you love him.”

“In his own way, maybe,” I admitted.

Eli frowned. “I don’t get it. If you love each other, why can’t you just be together?”

Shit, this kid. How did he make it sound so simple, so clear? When you took out all the heartbreak of the past and the dangers of the future, it did leave the present pretty stark, didn’t it?

But how did I explain to an eight-year-old that you couldn’t just live and love for the moment? That the past was a wound that had left a mark, that the future was a storm cloud shrouding the sun?

“People change,” I murmured, my fingers ruffling his blond hair. “Circumstances change. Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Eli was silent for a few moments, mulling over the words. Then, he whispered, “I think you’re wrong.”

My brows pulled tight in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I just want you to be happy. And I think Mr. Marcello wants that, too.” He shrugged. “Why isn’t that simple?”

I had no answer for that. I wished like anything I did—I wished like anything it could be that simple. “It’s hard to explain, but grown-up life makes everything complicated.”

“No, it doesn't.” His face—mouth, eyebrows, jaw—pulled into hard, determined lines. “I’m going to make it happen.”

I chuckled. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.” A grin stole across Eli’s face, and before I could ask for further clarification, he slid from the bed and bounded off down the hall. I tracked his little footsteps pattering against the hardwood.

I couldn’t help my own grin. Kids.

But my grin fell as I replayed the conversation. He was so sure, so certain, that things could be fixed. I wished I could have the optimism of an eight year old.

The image of Aldo from dinner flashed through my mind—all his hardness softened by candlelight and conversation, ease. It was like an image dredged up from the past, a ghost of my Vasco come to haunt me.

But how could I dare to even dream of a future with Aldo when the threat of Marco and his Morettis loomed so large? Was love—was happiness—even possible for someone like Aldo, someone like me?

Or was Eli right … Could we find a way back to each other in spite of everything?