116

116
KADIE 

The sound of the water running from the kitchen sink faded behind me as I stepped out with a towel in hand, only to find him again—right where I’d left him—seated on the far end of the couch, back rigid, jaw tight, eyes locked on the muted TV screen that had been playing the same news loop for an hour now.

But he wasn’t watching it.

He wasn’t really here at all.

Vincenzo looked like a man pacing inside his own mind—stuck somewhere between vengeance and exhaustion.

I watched him silently for a moment, drying my hands, then crossed the room slowly.

“Enzo,” I said softly, kneeling in front of him.

His gaze flickered down, surprised for a second. Then he forced a smile, reaching out to brush a stray curl from my face. “Hey…”

“You haven’t moved in an hour,” I said gently. “You didn’t eat the dinner I left for you.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” he replied.

I didn’t push.

But I saw it—the storm. The way his temples tensed when I touched his hand, the way his eyes drifted every few seconds like he was tracing invisible threads of danger across the walls.

“You’re tired,” I said finally. “You haven’t slept properly since… Venice.”

He exhaled slowly, the weight of too many secrets sitting on his shoulders. “I can’t afford to rest.”

“You can’t afford not to,” I said, placing my palm on his chest where I could feel his heartbeat drumming hard. “You’re burning at both ends.”

His hand covered mine.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re barely holding it together, and you think I don’t notice.”

Silence stretched.

Then, softer: “Enzo… you don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

He looked at me like that was a foreign concept. Like no one had ever told him that before without wanting something in return.

His voice was rough when he finally asked, “What if everything falls apart the second I stop watching?”

I slid up beside him on the couch, wrapping my arms around his torso and leaning into him.

“Then let it,” I whispered. “For just a few hours. Let it fall. I’m here. I’ll keep watch.”

His head dropped against mine, a breath escaping him like a silent surrender. And after a long moment, I felt his body relax—his hand falling onto my leg, his breathing evening out.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

Because when his eyes finally drifted shut, I knew—this was trust.

The rarest thing a man like Vincenzo could ever give.

I moved carefully, shifting beside him and gently patting my thigh. “Lie down.”

He looked at me, hesitant.

“Just… rest here. Please.”

Another beat of silence. Then, with a soft, wordless nod, he leaned sideways and stretched out slowly, placing his head on my lap — cautiously, almost like he didn’t think he deserved the softness.

I stroked his hair back, my fingers brushing through the strands slowly, rhythmically. His breathing started to steady, his lashes fluttering as his eyes closed against the comfort.

“You’re safe here,” I whispered, more to him than myself.

His lips parted slightly, a breath leaving him that sounded like surrender. The steel tension in his jaw eased and his brows softened. And for the first time in what felt like days, I saw Vincenzo — not the Don, not the strategist, not the soldier.

Just the man.

Broken. Tired. But still trying.

He shifted once, his hand resting gently on my knee, and then he was still. Asleep. Breathing warm against me like a boy who'd spent too long pretending he wasn't afraid.

I looked down at him, brushing a thumb gently over his temple.

And it hit me how much this man had never been allowed softness.

So I gave it to him.

As long as he needed it.

He stirred occasionally,  gripping tight on the hem of my dress, he was having a bad dream. 

“Stay…don't leave me.” He mumbled.

“Hey, I am here.” I continued patting his head softly again. 

He hadn’t stirred since he’d murmured those soft words. His head still rested on my thighs, his breathing slow and steady, as if some invisible weight had finally been lifted from his chest.

I didn’t move. I didn’t dare. If peace had a shape, it looked like this moment.

Then I heard the soft shuffle of small feet.

Turning my head, I saw Enzo standing near the entrance to the living room, his little frame swaddled in the oversized pajama top Camilla had picked out for him. His wide eyes landed on his father, then on me.

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he padded gently across the room—his steps careful, like he instinctively understood how fragile the quiet was.

When he reached us, he knelt down by Vincenzo’s feet, squinting a little at the laces of the polished shoes. He looked up at me, silently asking for permission.

I gave him a small nod and a smile. 

With careful little fingers, he began to untie Vincenzo’s shoes, one at a time. His face scrunched in concentration as he worked the knots loose, slipping the heavy shoes off and placing them gently to the side.

Then he reached up and brushed his father’s ankle, almost like he was making sure he was comfortable.

My throat tightened.

Enzo sat back on his heels, studying the scene he’d just become part of. “Papa looks tired,” he whispered.

“He is,” I said quietly, brushing my fingers through Vincenzo’s hair again. “He’s resting now.”

The little boy nodded solemnly, then leaned forward and placed a small kiss on Vincenzo’s hand where it lay across my knee. A silent promise in the gesture.

And just like that, I knew the little boy had inherited his father’s quiet intensity. His capacity to love deeply. Fiercely. Gently.

He crawled up beside me on the couch, curling into my side without another word. My free arm wrapped around him, holding both my boys close.

In this moment, we were safe.

A family—scarred, complicated, and incomplete in ways the world couldn’t see—but whole in the ways that truly mattered.

The living room was wrapped in the kind of silence you don't want to break.

Vincenzo was still asleep on my lap, his brow no longer drawn tight in stress. One arm hung loosely by his side, while Enzo had nestled into the crook of my arm, already dozing off again with a soft sigh.

I barely noticed the sound of the front door opening until a familiar shadow moved across the hall.

Pedro.

He stopped short the second he stepped into view.

A thick folder was clutched in one hand—no doubt details from Colombia or an update on the Glaziers—but the minute his eyes took in the scene in front of him, his whole demeanor softened.

His gaze flicked from Vincenzo, vulnerable and human in sleep, to me—my hand still slowly combing through his hair.

Then to Enzo, whose little hand clung to the hem of my shirt.

And he smiled. A real one.

It was quiet. Grateful.

He didn’t say a word. He just held up the folder slightly, like a promise he’d wait, and winked at me—a silent thank you in his eyes.

I nodded gently.

He turned around without another sound and disappeared down the hall, leaving us with the warmth of this fragile, beautiful moment.

A moment we both knew wouldn’t last forever.

But he gave us that space anyway.

He understood how much this moment meant for Vincenzo, and even though the documents he carried needed attention, he let it be.