Page 118 of Silence and Surrender

“You want to move to Tuscany?” I asked, studying his face. “Permanently?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no careful lawyer’s qualification. Just certainty. “Cooper’s been sending listings for days. There’s an old estate about fifteen minutes from the villa. Olive groves, vineyard, enough distance for privacy but close enough for family.”

“Family,” I echoed, tasting the word. Even now, even after everything, it felt fragile on my tongue. A miracle I wasn’t convinced I deserved.

“The main house needs renovation,” he continued, settling beside me, one hand absently moving to cover my stomach in what had become an unconscious habit. “But the foundations are solid. Cooper had specialists assess the structure.” A slight smile touched his mouth. “Apparently, my brother doesn’t trust Italian building inspectors.”

“With good reason,” I murmured, remembering stories Allegra had shared about renovating their villa. “Though I’d have thought his experiences with local craftsmen would have taught him some patience.”

“Patience has never been Cooper’s strong suit,” Colton replied, his thumb tracing small circles over my belly button. “But in this case, I appreciate his thoroughness. The property has potential. Security can be implemented discreetly. The nearest neighbor is two kilometers away.”

I set my mug on the coffee table, replacing its warmth with the heat of his hand clasped in mine. “You’ve been planning this for a while,” I observed.

A shadow crossed his face. “Since the night I found you in that place,” he said quietly. “When I thought I might lose you.” His fingers tightened around mine. “I promised myself that if we survived, if we made it out, I’d build something different. Something safe. Something...” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Permanent.”

“What about your work?” I asked, the practical question easier than examining the emotions his words had triggered. “Being a lawyer was your life for so long.”

“It was,” he acknowledged. “But I’ve been corresponding with a university in Florence. They have a program on international law. They’re interested in having me join their faculty.”

Surprise must have shown on my face, because his expression shifted to something almost defensive. “Is it so hard to imagine me as a professor?”

“No,” I said quickly, honestly. “You’d be brilliant. It’s just...” I tried to find the right words for the sudden, fierce pride expanding in my chest. “I want it so bad.”

“And you?” he asked, fingers tracing patterns along my wrist. “The art world was your life too.”

“Parts of it,” I agreed, thinking of the endless hours I’d spent studying brush strokes and pigments, the satisfaction of identifying a forgery, the private joy of recognizing genuine brilliance captured in paint or stone. “But there’s a conservation institute near Florence. They’re always looking for authentication specialists. Not full-time, necessarily, but consulting work that would let me be home with the boys.”

“Home,” he repeated, the word sounding like a vow in his mouth.

“I’d need a studio,” I continued, allowing myself to fully imagine it for the first time. “North-facing windows. Good light. Room for the specialized equipment.”

“The property has an outbuilding,” he said, and I could hear the barely contained excitement beneath his measured tone. “Stone walls. High ceilings. It was used as an art studio by the previous owner’s wife.”

I blinked, startled by this perfect detail. “Really?”

“Really.” His smile grew. “Cooper sent pictures. I’ve been saving them to show you when...” He hesitated. “When the timing felt right.”

“May I see them?” I asked softly. “Now?”

He nodded, retrieving his secure tablet from among the surveillance equipment on the dining table. When he returned, he sat closer, his thigh warm against mine as he navigated to a hidden folder.

“Cooper’s been investigating this place for weeks,” he explained as images loaded on the screen. “Security assessments, structural analysis, property boundaries...” He swiped past diagrams and reports to reach photographs. “Here.”

The main house appeared first—a Tuscan farmhouse larger than I’d expected, honey-colored stone glowing in Mediterranean sunshine. Three stories, with a tile roof and green shutters, surrounded by aged olive trees and tangled grapevines climbing hillsides in neat rows.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, something inside me responding to the warmth and permanence radiating from the image.

“The interior needs work,” he cautioned, swiping to show rooms with good bones but outdated fixtures. “But nothing structural. Mostly cosmetic updates.”

He continued through images of a spacious kitchen with a stone hearth, living areas with wooden beams crossing high ceilings, bedrooms flooded with natural light. Each photo made the possibility feel more real—a life after all this, a place where our children could grow without fear.

“And the studio?” I prompted when he paused.

His expression shifted to anticipation mixed with uncertainty. “I saved it for last,” he admitted, swiping to a new image.

The building appeared, and my breath caught in my throat slightly. Stone walls weathered by centuries of sun and wind. A wall of north-facing windows, just as I’d requested. Wooden beams supporting a peaked roof. Space—glorious, open space—with light pouring through clerestory windows.

“It’s perfect,” I said, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

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