Chapter 168 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 168 (Elena's POV)
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper.


My great-uncle's handwriting—crooked, much messier than before. Some strokes trembled badly, as if the hand holding the pen had been shaking.


But every character was completed. No corrections.


"Elena,


I lied to you about one thing.


The heart problem is an old issue. The doctor said last year that surgery would only delay things. That I've held on long enough to see you take back the ports—that was already extra time God gave me.


Don't cry.


When you cry your nose turns red, exactly like your grandmother. She'd scold me if she saw.


Sorry to trouble you with the funeral. Take me home.


The sea in Sicily—I haven't heard it in a very, very long time.


Your great-uncle"


There were a few spots where the ink had bled.


Had he cried while writing this?


Or was it just that his hand shook too badly, the pen tip lingering too long on the paper?


I didn't know.


I folded the letter, put it back in the envelope.


Then I cried.


In Adrian's arms, on the terrace, in Lake Michigan's cold night wind—I finally cried.


No sound.


Only tears, large drops surging from my eyes, hitting his sweater, bleeding into dark circles.


He didn't speak.


Just held me, palm covering the back of my head, chin resting on top.


Very tight. Very warm.


Like a wall, blocking all the wind.




Three days later, I took my great-uncle home to Sicily.


Adrian came with me.


The plane left Chicago at night and landed in Palermo at dawn.


Mediterranean sunlight streamed through the cabin window, golden, making me squint.


The cemetery was on a hillside outside Catania.


Very small. Surrounded by olive trees and cypress, leaves rustling when the wind blew.


Standing before the headstone, you could see the sea.


On the blue-black surface, a few fishing boats trailed white wakes, moving slowly.


The sound of waves striking rock came from the distance—very soft, very far, but unbroken.


Like breathing.


"You're home, great-uncle." I crouched before the headstone, placing a bottle of espresso on the stone. His favorite brand. Lavazza.


Beside it, his notebook.


The brown leather cover worn to a shine, corners curling up.


Inside was his life's work—intelligence networks, relationship maps, fund flows, all the secrets and wisdom.


"Returning this to you. Don't worry, I've memorized it all," I said, fingers pausing on the leather for a second. "I really wanted to keep it as a memento, but it's better to give it back. If you get bored over there, you can flip through it."


Wind blew in, carrying salt and earth.


Olive leaves rustled.


Adrian stood a few steps away. Not approaching.


Giving me space.


I sat before the headstone for a long time.


Until the sunlight moved from overhead to behind me, shadow stretching long.


When I stood, my knees ached and tingled.


I turned and walked toward Adrian.


He extended his hand. I took it.


His palm was warm.


We walked down the hillside together.


Behind us—the sea. The olive trees. My great-uncle's quiet headstone.


I didn't look back.




Back in Chicago, life kept moving forward.


The port management team needed building. The garage expansion plan needed finalizing. The third floor of the North Side office still had a wall with fist-holes from Luca and Adrian that hadn't been repaired.


I worked as usual.


Up at seven every morning, at the garage by eight. Calibrating the CNC with Marcus, reconciling accounts with Sofia, returning calls to Chinese Chamber of Commerce clients.


Afternoons at the North Side office handling port matters—meetings with Uncle Simone, reviewing contracts, video calls with the Palermo management team.


Evenings back to the apartment. Shower, dinner, a bit of television.


Adrian usually arrived around nine.


The sound of his key in the lock had become a background sound that put me at ease.


I didn't show obvious grief.


Didn't cry a second time. Didn't lock myself in my room. No loss of appetite or insomnia.


At least not on the surface.


But Adrian could tell.


When I curled up on the sofa watching TV at night, my fingers would unconsciously trace the cover of a notebook—one I'd said I "returned to great-uncle" but had actually bought an identical replacement to keep beside me.


Brown leather cover, corners not yet curled.


But I was using it.


Every night I'd open it and write—plans, memos, sometimes sentences with no logic.


Adrian never looked.


Never asked.


He just pulled me off the sofa every night.


Brought me to the bedroom.


The way he undid my shirt buttons was slow—one by one, fingertips brushing across collarbone, chest, ribs.


Unhurried.


As if confirming every inch of my body was still right here.


His kisses were slow too—starting at my forehead, brow bone, eyes, nose tip, finally lips.


Each one very light.


Light enough to say "I'm here."


When he entered me, my fingers would grip his back.


Not just from pleasure—though pleasure was there too.


More because when his body pressed against mine, that solid, real weight made me feel I wouldn't fall apart.


Made me feel—even with one person fewer in the world, I was still anchored here.


Sometimes at the final moment he'd whisper against my ear, "I love you."


Voice very low, low enough to blend into heavy breathing, nearly inaudible.


But I heard it every time.


I didn't answer.


He never asked me to.


These nights repeated many times.




One morning, I threw up in the bathroom.


Out of nowhere—acid surging into my mouth, stomach clenching violently, everything from last night's dinner coming back up.


I braced myself on the sink, gasping.


The face in the mirror was a bit pale, but otherwise nothing unusual.


Probably just a bad night's sleep.


The next morning, I threw up again.


This time even bile came up, so bitter I curled into a ball.


Adrian stood in the bathroom doorway holding a glass of water, expression worried.


"Should we go to the hospital?"


"No need." I rinsed my mouth, wiped it. "Probably just too tired lately."


Day three.


I hunched over the garage sink dry-heaving for a full three minutes—nothing came up, because breakfast had never gone down.


Sofia poked her head from the warehouse, looked at me twice.


Then she walked over, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.


Her expression was very particular.


That look I'd seen on her face countless times—"I know the answer but I'm waiting for you to figure it out yourself."


"Boss," she said.


"Mm?" I splashed cold water on my face.


"When was your last period?"


The faucet was still running.


Water rushed against the enamel basin, the sound suddenly seeming very far away.


My hand froze mid-air.


Water droplets slid from my fingertips, hitting the basin wall one by one.


Last time… when was it?


I tried to remember.


A week ago? Two weeks?


No.


Longer.


Three weeks? Four?


I saw my own face in the mirror.


Pale. Eyes wide.


Sofia still leaned against the doorframe, mouth curved.


"Boss," she said, voice very soft. "I think you should go buy a pregnancy test."