Page 18 of Marco

"The dark rooms come after the parties," I reply ruefully.

She smiles a little at that, her eyes scanning the bookshelves.

"Have you read all of these?"

I nod. "Most of them. This room was my sanctuary growing up."

She pulls out a worn copy of The Great Gatsby, flipping through the pages.

"This was always one of my favorites. It made me want to move to another city and reinvent myself."

Her voice grows wistful. I study her face, recalling my own youthful dreams before the weight of my name came crashing down...

The rain patters against the glass, cocooning us in this private moment. I realize I barely know this woman who fate has entwined me with. But for the first time, I realize I want to do more than just protect her.

I take a slow sip of whiskey, gathering my thoughts. It's rare I share these pieces of myself. But something in her open expression compels me.

"When I was seven, my father gave me a chess set. He said if I could beat him, he'd take me on my first job with him."

I absently turn the tumbler in my hand. "I spent hours studying those black and white pieces, learning strategies, practicing end games. Chess requires patience, foresight, and total discipline. I had to master it all."

I meet her gaze. "It took a year of relentless work before I finally won. I'll never forget the grin on my father's face when he said 'Checkmate'."

Rain patters against the windowpanes, filling the thoughtful silence.

"What was the job?" she finally asks.

My jaw tightens. "Nothing a seven-year-old should see."

Understanding flickers in her eyes. This life forced me to grow up fast, to harden parts of myself that should've stayed soft.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Her voice is gentle, without judgment.

I give a slight shrug, the most vulnerability I can allow right now. But her quiet acceptance soothes something in me.

We sit awhile, two strangers connected by a story. The storm rages on outside, but here, just for now, there is stillness.

I nod slowly, appreciating her compassion. Our arranged union threw us together, but only now are we truly seeing each other.

"What about you?" I ask. "Any childhood dreams before all this?"

She looks thoughtful, a crease forming between her brows. "You know, I guess I really was living my dream. I always imagined having a little café someday. Nothing fancy, just cozy and full of delicious smells—fresh bread, cinnamon, coffee."

Her features soften as she describes it, linking her childhood dreams to her recent past. I can still picture her there, bustling around in an apron, chatting with customers. It suits her. I feel like a monster for dragging her away. But if I had let her stay in her old life, she may not still be here...

"Why a café, though? Did you consider a restaurant or a bar… some other kind of food place?"

"My nonna owned one back in Italy. I'd spend summers there, watching her work. The care she put into everything, how people lingered for hours..." She trails off, lost in the memory. "And then she brought this business when we immigrated. She handed it over to me, but still is heavily involved, and does all the bookkeeping and so on."

"It sounds nice," I offer. And it does. A glimpse of the life she could've continued to have had, before her father's long-ago dealings changed everything.

"Maybe someday." She gives a small shrug, but there’s longing in her voice.

We fall into easy silence again. For these stolen moments, we aren't reluctant spouses. Just two people sharing pieces of who we are underneath it all.

The storm still rages outside, but here, we've found a moment of quiet.

Alessia's words hang in the air between us, this talk of simpler dreams that now feel well and truly out of reach. I know that longing all too well.

---