Part 4: A Kiss at the Worst Possible Time
They found Allegra’s mother in a disused hotel near the river.
Alive. Uninjured. Furious.
“Allegra Rossi! Have you been sleeping? You look exhausted.”
Allegra burst into tears.
Her mother embraced her, then looked over Allegra’s shoulder at Edoardo.
“And you. Is this how you look after my daughter?”
“I’m trying, Signora Rossi.”
“Try harder.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Allegra lifted her head. “You kidnapped her?”
“Of course not,” her mother said. “Marco Bellandi’s men took me. They asked about your father.”
The room fell silent.
Edoardo gently closed the door behind them.
“What did you tell them?”
“That Antonio was dead.”
Allegra stepped back.
Her mother couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Mum.”
“Sweetheart—”
“You know something.”
Her mother sat heavily on the bed.
For nearly a year after the shooting, she’d believed Antonio dead. Then a letter arrived containing a private family phrase only he could know. It instructed her never to look for him, never to tell Allegra and never to contact the authorities. The letter warned that Bellandi had people inside the protection programme.
“Five years,” Allegra whispered. “You knew he might be alive for five years?”
“I knew he had been alive when he wrote. That’s all. There was no address, no way to reply. If Bellandi thought we knew, he’d come after you.”
“He came after us anyway.”
Her mother began to cry.
Allegra felt anger rise, sharp and familiar. But she saw the exhaustion in her mother’s face, the years of fear she’d carried alone.
“I needed you to trust me,” Allegra said.
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
For a long moment they held each other.
Then Allegra left before she said something she couldn’t take back.
Edoardo found her on the hotel’s rear staircase.
He sat one step below her, leaving space between them.
“You can say it,” she muttered.
“Say what?”
“That you warned me.”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m sure you thought it.”
“Several times.”
She almost smiled.
Then the tears came again.
“I spent six years trying to avenge a man who may have been alive the whole time.”
“You loved him.”
“He let me bury him.”
“We don’t know why.”
“Everyone has a reason. Everyone thinks their reason makes it acceptable to lie.”
Edoardo was quiet.
“My parents died when I was sixteen,” he said eventually. “My uncle arranged an attack on their car. My cousin Gabriele was fourteen. He had nothing to do with it.”
Allegra looked at him.
“You work with the son of the man who killed them?”
“Gabriele helped me remove his father from the organisation. He’s spent the rest of his life trying to make amends for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“That’s a heavy thing to carry.”
“It is.”
She studied his face.
“You could have killed your uncle.”
“I could.”
“Did you?”
“No. I gave the evidence to prosecutors. He died in prison.”
Allegra considered that.
“You’re not quite the man I expected.”
“Disappointing?”
“Frequently.”
He smiled faintly.
She reached for his hand.
It felt absurdly intimate, that small contact. More intimate than their wedding kiss.
“You’re allowed to be angry,” he said. “At your father. At your mother. At me.”
“I’m excellent at it.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“And you’re allowed to tell me things before deciding what’s best for me.”
He looked at her. “I’m learning.”
“Slowly.”
“Painfully.”
She leaned towards him.
“Edoardo?”
“Yes?”
“If you kiss me, I may still be furious afterwards.”
“I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
This time she kissed him first.
It wasn’t a performance for guests or a term of their arrangement. His hand rose to her cheek and hers caught the front of his shirt. For a moment, grief and anger loosened their grip.
Then a phone rang.
Allegra pulled away.
“If that’s another kidnapping, I’m going to become extremely unpleasant.”
Edoardo checked the screen.
His expression hardened.
“Gabriele’s been shot.”
“Is he alive?”
“In surgery.”
“Who did it?”
He looked at her, and she already knew she wouldn’t like the answer.
“The gun was purchased with your stolen identity. And a witness says the shooter looked exactly like you.”
