Chapter 172 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 172 (Elena's POV)
Four years later.


Sicily. Port of Palermo.


I stood on the third-floor balcony of the port office building, elbows braced on the iron railing, looking down at the busy dock below.


Three gantry cranes operating simultaneously, steel cables pulled taut, lifting containers from ship holds one after another.


Containers landing on flatbeds with deep metallic thuds—boom, boom, boom—rhythm constant, like a heartbeat.


Every container's side bore the same emblem—a white lily, beneath it a line of deep blue text: Caruso Logistics.


Sunlight struck those lilies, blindingly white.


Sea wind blew up from the port, carrying salt, diesel, and the smell of sun-heated steel.


The Mediterranean spread beyond the dock's end—blue verging on black, stretching to where the horizon disappeared.


"Mommy!"


A little boy's voice from behind—soft, carrying that particular three-and-a-half-year-old cadence where every vowel stretched long.


I turned.


Giovanni stood in the balcony corner.


He'd dragged a small step stool over—smuggled from the office—standing on it, little hands braced on the railing, entire body on tiptoes leaning out.


Deep brown hair wild in the sea wind—the exact same shade as mine. But his eyes were amber—when sunlight hit them they turned the color of honey.


Adrian's eyes.


"Mommy, when is Linh coming back?" He tilted his head up at me. A small freckle on his nose, mouth stained pale orange from eating a mandarin.


"Linh-jiejie," I corrected.


He wrinkled his nose—that expression identical to Adrian thinking through a problem.


"When is Linh coming back?" he repeated, clearly having no intention of correcting himself.


"She's at school," I said, walking over to fix his crooked collar. "She won't be back until the weekend."


"Hmph." He turned back to watching the ships, little chin resting on chubby hands. "The weekend is so far."


"It's only three days."


"Three days is so far."


I laughed and ruffled his hair.


He ducked my hand, grumbling, but wasn't truly upset.


The balcony door opened. Leather shoes on marble.


"Two Lavazzas." Adrian walked out, carrying two cups of coffee—deep brown porcelain, steam rising.


He handed one to me.


"Thank you."


I took it, fingers brushing his—warm, carrying residual heat from the cup.


He now split his time between being a state senator and handling policy and legal work for the family enterprise—Caruso Logistics operated in three countries, requiring far more compliance and political relationship management than I'd anticipated.


But he thrived in it.


Compared to four years ago—that man who always buttoned his shirt to the very top, every pore radiating "elite pressure"—he was much more relaxed now.


Sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar unbuttoned two buttons, a light wheat tan from the sun.


Fine lines at his eye corners—when he smiled they creased into little fan shapes.


But still handsome when he smiled.


"Daddy!" Giovanni hopped off the stool, arms spread wide, charging over. "Up!"


Adrian held his own coffee in one hand, scooped his son under the arms with the other—lifting him like a kitten, settling him on his shoulders.


Giovanni excitedly grabbed Adrian's hair, bottom perched on his father's shoulders, surveying the entire port from on high.


"Daddy! That one!" His small finger pointed at a cargo ship approaching port. "The big one!"


"Mm, that's coming from Rotterdam," Adrian looked up at him. "Carrying auto parts."


"What are parts?"


"They're… little pieces that make up a car."


"Like Legos?"


"…Yes, like Legos."


Giovanni nodded with satisfaction, continuing to look around.


I leaned against the railing, holding my coffee, watching them.


Wind blew Adrian's hair into disarray—Giovanni riding his shoulders, little feet swinging, kicking his father's chest.


Adrian winced but said nothing, just adjusted his son's feet slightly.


"Don't kick Daddy."


"Didn't kick."


"You just did."


"That was an accident."


"Accidents still require an apology."


"…Sorry, Daddy."


"Mm."


I sipped my coffee.


Lavazza espresso—same as my great-uncle's favorite.


Bitter, but with a nutty aftertaste in the finish.


On the distant sea, a yacht was passing beyond the port.


Dark gray hull, sharp lines, cutting through the water like a blade.


Very familiar.


I glanced at it.


My mouth curved slightly.


The yacht didn't stop—gliding smoothly through the outer channel, bow aimed toward open Mediterranean waters.


But in one brief instant as it passed—the bow turned slightly.


Toward the balcony where I stood.


Only an instant.


A very small angle.


If you weren't watching the whole time, you'd never notice.


Then the bow corrected, continuing toward the distance.


Its wake drew a white line across the blue sea, growing thinner and fainter until the waves swallowed it.


"Mommy!" Giovanni suddenly pointed at the yacht, voice pitching up with excitement. "That boat is so cool!"


He twisted to look at me, amber eyes sparkling.


"Who's on it?"


I watched the yacht growing smaller in the distance.


Dark gray hull catching metallic sheen in the sunlight, shrinking, finally becoming a tiny point on the Mediterranean.


"It is cool," I said.


Giovanni waited two seconds, realized I hadn't answered his question.


But his three-and-a-half-year-old attention had already been captured by something else—


"If I could drive a boat that cool," he clenched his small fists, expression serious as if announcing some major decision, "I could go pick up Linh, right?"


Adrian and I turned to look at each other simultaneously.


His mouth was twitching—straining to hold still, but the laughter in his eyes completely unhideable.


Same for me.


Lips biting the cup's rim, shoulders trembling slightly.


"If you drive a boat to pick her up from school," Adrian said with a straight face, "her teachers will call the police."


"Why?"


"Because boats can't park at the school entrance."


"What about parking far away?"


"…Then she'd have to walk a long way to get on the boat."


"Then I'll go walk her there!"


"You still trip when you walk."


"I do not!"


Adrian bent and kissed his son's hair—soft, smelling of baby shampoo.


"Let's go," he said. "Margaret says she made your favorite for dinner. If we don't head back it'll get cold."


"General Tso's chicken!" Giovanni immediately started sliding down from the shoulders. "I want the wings!"


"Those are cola wings—that's different."


"Same! Both are chicken!"


"Not the same—"


"Same!"


The father-son argument faded down the corridor.


I stood on the balcony, finishing the last sip of coffee.


The dregs left dark brown traces on the white porcelain walls, like a ring of fine growth lines.


Sea wind blew my hair across my cheek.


I tucked the strands behind my ear, turned, and walked inside.


Sunlight chased from behind, falling across my shoulders and back, gilding me and the person waiting in the corridor ahead in a warm golden edge.


In the distance, the port horn sounded.


Once.


Long. Warm.


As if to say—


Welcome home.


(The End)