Chapter 167 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 167 (Elena's POV)
The Palermo Port Authority meeting room was on the third floor.


Three documents spread across the long table.


Port of Palermo. Port of Trapani. Port of Catania.


Each one thick as a novel—property transfer certificates, court orders, government approvals, notarized documents.


Italian, English, various official seals and signatures.


The notary sat at the other end—a balding man in his fifties, gold-rimmed glasses, blue ink stains on his fingers.


"Miss Caruso." He extended a fountain pen. "Please sign where indicated."


I took the pen.


The barrel was heavy, brass, cold in my grip.


First document. Port of Palermo.


The instant the nib touched paper, ink seeped into fiber, leaving a deep blue stroke.


Elena Caruso.


Every letter slow. Steady.


My hand didn't shake.


Second document. Port of Trapani.


Elena Caruso.


Third document. Port of Catania.


The nib lingered one extra second on the tail of the "o."


Then lifted.


The notary collected the documents, reviewed them once through, stamped the final seal.


"The property transfer is effective immediately," he said, closing the folder. "Congratulations, Miss Caruso."


I stood.


Uncle Simone stood behind me.


From the moment I'd sat down to sign, he'd been standing there. Motionless.


I turned to look at him.


His hands were shaking badly—fists clenched at his sides, trembling faintly, knuckles white.


He said nothing.


Just stared at the three stamped documents on the table.


A long time passed—maybe ten seconds, maybe longer—before he spoke.


"Your father…"


Voice hoarse as sandpaper.


"…can rest now."


The bridge of my nose stung sharply.


But I held it in.


I walked over and gripped his trembling hand tightly.


He squeezed back hard enough to hurt.


But I didn't let go.


Sunlight from the port's direction poured through the window, golden columns of light crossing the meeting room, falling on our clasped hands.


Very warm.




Back in Chicago, I threw a celebration on the rooftop terrace of the North Side office.


"Celebration" was generous—really just a bunch of people gathered together eating and drinking.


Margaret had started preparing two days early—General Tso's chicken, black pepper beef, cola chicken wings, hot and sour soup. The smell filled the whole building.


Sofia made three trays of lasagna. Marcus contributed two massive platters of burritos—extra meat this time.


Pavel brought a bottle of Polish vodka, sent from home. "Very good. Very strong."


Carlos brought a case of Mexican beer. Diego brought a massive Bluetooth speaker, playing Latin dance music with a beat so strong even Pavel's feet were tapping.


Lieutenant Reyes came too—in civilian clothes, holding a bag of donuts.


"Didn't know what to bring." He set the bag on the table, slightly awkward. "Got them at the supermarket."


"Donuts with vodka." Marcus threw an arm around his shoulders. "Now that's what I call cross-cultural fusion!"


Reyes's expression hovered between confusion and fear.


Linh wore a pink dress, weaving through the crowd, a stick of cotton candy held high. Sofia chased behind her—"Stop running! You'll fall—"


Before she finished, Linh crashed into Pavel's leg.


Pavel caught her without a word, lifted her onto his shoulders.


Linh giggled, cotton candy poking Pavel's head, leaving a strand of pink sugar in his blond hair.


He remained expressionless, continuing to drink his vodka as if nothing existed on his head.


I stood at the terrace edge, watching everyone.


Everyone was laughing.


Chicago's early spring sunlight lit every face on that terrace crystal clear.


My great-uncle sat in a lounge chair in the terrace corner.


Wrapped in a wool blanket, holding the espresso Margaret had poured him.


His post-surgery recovery had gone well—he could sit up, drink his own coffee, even quietly curse people.


But he'd lost a lot of weight. The blanket looked oversized on him.


His eyes were half-closed, a trace of smile at his mouth, gaze slowly sweeping across every person on the terrace.


Adrian walked over, crouched beside him, talking.


I couldn't see what they were discussing—only that my great-uncle reached out and took Adrian's hand.


Held it for a long time.


Then he said something—Adrian laughed, shook his head.


My great-uncle blinked, said something else.


Adrian's ear tips went red.


I walked over.


"What are you two talking about?"


Adrian cleared his throat: "Nothing—"


"I said his children with you will definitely be adorable." My great-uncle beamed at me.


"Great-uncle!" My face ignited instantly.


"Young people are so shy." He sipped his coffee, perfectly self-satisfied.


Adrian stood, rubbing the back of his neck.


"We… haven't thought about having children yet," he said, voice half a note lower than usual.


My great-uncle looked at him.


"You will." He winked.


Adrian's ear tips went from red to deep crimson.


I decided to pretend I'd heard nothing.




By evening, people gradually dispersed.


Marcus and Diego cleaned up. Sofia carried sleeping Linh back to the apartment. Pavel left with his empty vodka bottle, a rare flush of color on his face, nodding to me as he went.


Margaret packed up leftovers, put them in the fridge, patted my head saying "eat more," then left too.


Only my great-uncle and I remained on the terrace.


And Adrian—inside on a phone call, his voice reaching us faintly through the glass door.


The sun was setting.


Lake Michigan became a vast mirror under the sunset—every ripple reflecting light, scattered gold filling the entire view.


"Tired," my great-uncle said softly. "Want to sit alone for a bit."


"Okay." I stood, walked behind his lounge chair, and slowly turned it to face the lake.


The chair legs scraped softly across the floor.


He faced Lake Michigan, wrapped in his blanket, like an old cat curled into the last trace of sunlight's warmth.


"Beautiful," he said.


I followed his gaze.


The sun had already sunk below the lake's surface, leaving only one last fiery red line at the horizon.


Cloud colors shifted from burnt orange to rose, then from rose slowly fading to pale purple.


"When you're feeling better," I said, "I'll take you back to Sicily to see the sea."


He reached out his hand.


I took it.


His fingers were very thin, knuckles protruding, skin dry as old paper.


But still warm.


"Good," he said.


He patted the back of my hand.


Twice. Very lightly.


The way he always did when seeing me off.


I kissed his forehead, turned, and walked back inside.


Margaret had forgotten a bag in the kitchen—I organized it for her, left it by the door.


Then chatted with Adrian for a few minutes—his call had just ended, he was wiping ink off his hands.


"Great-uncle said he wants to sit alone for a bit," I said.


Adrian glanced toward the terrace and nodded.


"Let him rest."


We talked a while longer—about the ports' ongoing management, the garage expansion plans, next week's schedule.


Five minutes.


Maybe six.


Then I pushed open the terrace door and stepped out.


The sky had mostly darkened.


That last fiery line at the horizon had vanished too. Only deep blue sky remained, and city lights in the distance.


My great-uncle's lounge chair still faced the lake.


His head tilted slightly, resting against the right side of the backrest.


Eyes closed.


A trace of smile at his mouth—a shallow arc, as if he'd seen something that put him at ease, then fallen asleep inside that image.


The blanket had slipped slightly from his shoulder, revealing the dark sweater's neckline.


Wind blew from the lake. Very gentle. Stirring his silver hair.


"Great-uncle." I called softly. "Time to go in. It's cold out here."


He didn't move.


I walked over, bent down, reached for his hand—every other time, he would have startled awake and smiled at me.


…Why was his hand so cold?


My knees buckled and I dropped to the ground.


Knees striking the floor, painful—but I couldn't feel it.


I gripped his hand tight.


As if holding hard enough could push warmth from my palm into his knuckles.


"Great-uncle." I called again.


The sound squeezed from my throat, broken.


"Great-uncle…"


His mouth still held that trace of smile.


Eyes closed.


Lashes casting thin shadows in the faint light, quiet as a painting.


Wind blew again.


Lake lights shattered into fragments of gold in the darkness, like stars scattered across the ground.


He would never open his eyes again.


I knew.


From the second I touched his fingers—I knew.


But I wouldn't believe it.


Didn't dare.


Like when I was little, climbing my grandmother's olive tree—she said, "You climbed up yourself, so you have to come down yourself."


But this time—


I didn't want to come down.


I wanted to stay on that branch forever, as if none of my family had ever left.


Forever—


"Elena?"


Adrian's voice came from behind.


Getting no response, he walked over quickly.


Seeing our posture, his expression changed. He reached out, gently pressing fingers to the side of my great-uncle's neck.


Two seconds.


When his fingers withdrew, he said nothing.


Just extended his arms and wrapped me entirely from behind.


I buried myself in his chest, lips biting the collar of his sweater, teeth sinking into fabric.


Didn't cry.


Tears were all jammed in my throat, blocking so I couldn't breathe, chest feeling like someone had grabbed it in a fist, squeezing tighter and tighter—


But they wouldn't come out.


As if crying would mean admitting it. Admitting he was truly gone.


"Elena." Adrian's voice was very low, lips against the top of my head. "I'm here."


My fingers gripping his sweater went white.


Uncle Simone came running up from downstairs—he must have heard something.


He saw my great-uncle in the lounge chair and his steps halted sharply.


Standing in the terrace doorway. Motionless.


A long time passed.


He walked over.


Slowly. Each step like treading on broken glass.


He stopped beside the lounge chair, looking down at my great-uncle's face.


That quiet face, still wearing its smile.


Simone didn't speak.


His Adam's apple rolled violently several times.


Then he pulled something from his pocket.


An envelope.


White, somewhat creased, as if taken out and put back repeatedly.


He hesitated two seconds.


"Elena." His voice was so hoarse it was barely recognizable. "Your great-uncle… left you a letter."


He held the envelope toward me.


"He'd instructed—after he was gone, to give it to you."


I stared at the white envelope.


Wind from the lake blew, ruffling its corners.


I released my grip on Adrian's sweater.


Reached out.


Took it.


The envelope was very light.


But holding it—


Heavy enough to make my whole body tremble.