Marco Ricci, Alessandro’s right hand for twenty years, sat on his left. Two elderly capos sat farther down, men who had known Elena since her wedding day. Dr. Rinaldi, the physician who had delivered Mateo, sat near Rosa and tried to make Emma laugh with a folded napkin bird. Victor Moretti, Alessandro’s younger half-brother, sat across from Elena with his usual easy smile.
Victor had always been beautiful in a careless way. Softer than Alessandro. Quicker to laugh. The kind of man guests liked because he remembered birthdays, carried children on his shoulders, and made old women feel charming without making young women feel hunted.
He raised his glass when Elena stood.
The room quieted.
“I am not good at speeches,” Elena said.
Her voice was soft, but it carried.
“So I will say only this. Thank you for waiting. Thank you for bringing my son home. And to a new beginning.”
She carried her glass to Alessandro and placed it in his hand.
His fingers closed around it.
“To family,” he said. “And to what we almost lost.”
He drank.
The first sip tasted of old Barolo and relief.
Conversation loosened around the table. Marco told Dr. Rinaldi a dry story about a priest, a baker, and a funeral no one wanted to attend. Emma showed Mateo how to fold her napkin bird back into a square. Rosa leaned toward Elena and asked whether the kitchen had fresh basil.
Alessandro took a second sip.
Something tightened behind his sternum.
Not pain exactly.
A closing hand.
He set the glass down carefully.
Elena saw it.
“Are you all right?”
