Page 130 of Salvatore

The small lamp flicks on as I make my way to the other side of the passage and rest against my usual spot at the end of the wall.

Adena sits on the bed, her age-wrinkled face far more exuberant than it has been as she claims her knitting needles and spool of wool from under her pillow.

“You look happy,” I say through sadness. “I assume Salvatore snuck in to see you.”

She nods, thetink,tink,tinkof her metal needles filling the small room. “You’re not meant to have favorites. But it’s no secret he’s mine. Despite my situation, he still cares for me and I for him.”

My belly regains its fluttering disarray. The more I learn about Salvatore the more I admire. It’s maniacal.

“He was very distracted, though,” she continues. “Tight-lipped, too. Did something happen?”

I shrug, itching to tell her everything. “I’m leaving in the morning. I came to say goodbye.”

Those knitting needles pause their tinkering movements. “Is my son leaving with you?”

I lower my gaze to the floor, wanting to say yes,needingit to be true even though it feels entirely too vulnerable, but… “I don’t know. He wants to…” I attempt to picture what that outcome would look like—him relocating me, just the two of us, alone.

“You don’t want his company?” There’s an edge of tense curiosity in her voice.

“It’s complicated.” I meet her frown with a look of apology. “The situation between us is…” I sigh. “It’s just complicated.”

“Are the two of you a couple yet?”

“No.” I answer too quickly. Too emphatically.

She raises her brows as if all knowing, all seeing.

I’m unsure how to respond.

“He’s a successful man.” Her tone fills with defensive pride. “And handsome. He comes from good Italian stock.”

He’s also protective, witty, and oddly compassionate.

All his positive attributes compile in an unfathomable list that has my stomach doing a sweeping roll.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Nothing.Everything.

“I don’t know.” I press a hand to my belly, trying to calm the riotous war of my insides with a softly stroking thumb.

Her gaze narrows on my abdomen as if my stomach holds the answers. “You’re concerned about something.” She casts her wool and needles to the side and climbs onto her knees. “Come here, child.” She slides her arms between the metal bars and beckons me forward. “Let me give you a hug.”

My heart fractures, the maternally starved little girl inside me wanting to rush toward her. “What about the cameras?”

“Hold on.” She retracts her arms and reaches for the night light, plunging the room into darkness. “Now we can’t get caught.”

I stare into the inky black, my hesitance and despair fighting against yearning so potent it squeezes my lungs.

I place my phone beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms and chance a step toward her cell, the tiny red light the only glow to mark my way.

“Please, Ivy. Let me comfort you.” Her voice guides me through the void. “Everything will be okay.”

I want to believe her. To cling to the only motherly words of reassurance I’ve had in a decade despite them coming from a stranger behind bars.

I’ve never felt more alone. More hopeless.

“That’s it,” she coaxes. “Come to me,sciocca patetica.”

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