Mateo looked at his father, then his mother, then the puddles on the step.
He ran out and threw himself against Alessandro’s legs.
Elena watched them for one long, exhausted moment.
Then she stepped onto the wet tile and placed one hand on Alessandro’s shoulder.
Lightly.
Barely.
Enough.
“One week,” she said.
The Moretti estate lit up two nights later for the first time in a year.
Every window on the second and third floors glowed amber. The ivy had been cut back from the gate. The great chandelier in the foyer had been cleaned bulb by bulb by a housekeeper who cried while she worked. The house seemed to inhale as the black car came up the drive with Elena, Mateo, and two guests no Moretti boss before Alessandro would have invited.
Rosa Rivera.
And Emma.
Rosa wore a borrowed navy dress and kept one hand on her daughter’s shoulder as if marble floors might swallow children if no mother paid attention. Emma wore white patent shoes half a size too big. She carried a small wrapped box of cookies because Rosa said one did not enter a home empty-handed, even if the home was a mansion with iron gates and guards at every corner.
Mateo would not let go of Emma’s hand.
So Alessandro invited her as guest of honor.
Elena wore black. Simple. No jewelry except the wedding ring she had taken from its chain and placed back on her left hand after staring at it for nearly ten minutes in Rosa’s kitchen.
Alessandro noticed.
He said nothing.
He had learned, in three days, that not every miracle should be touched.
Dinner was served at seven in the formal dining room. White linen. Beeswax candles. White roses down the center of the table because Elena had never liked red roses and Alessandro had remembered that even when he forgot how to keep her safe.
Twelve people sat down.
