Adrian
“Adrian.”
Matteo’s voice comes through the phone carefully, like he’s stepping onto unfamiliar ground and checking each plank before he puts his weight down. I let the silence stretch for a second longer than necessary, not to unsettle him, but to make sure I’m answering from the right place instead of reflex.
“Matteo,” I say at last. “I heard.”
There’s a pause on the line, the kind that carries a question without shaping it into words. When he speaks again, his tone is measured, guarded by experience rather than fear.
“From Serafina?”
“Yes,” I reply. “She told me herself.”
Another pause follows, heavier now. I imagine him standing wherever he is, shoulders squared, jaw tight, bracing for something that might cut even if he pretends it won’t.
“And?” he asks finally.
I lean back in my chair, the room dim except for the lamp by the window, the quiet settled enough that I can hear my own breathing. “And I’m calling to congratulate you.”
The exhale on the other end is slow and unmistakable, like air released after being held far too long.
“Thank you,” he says. “That… means more than you probably think.”
“It means exactly what it sounds like,” I answer. “Nothing owed. Nothing performed.”
He lets out a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear that from you.”
“I wasn’t sure either,” I admit. “Which is why I didn’t rush it.”
We agree to meet without negotiating the reasons. There’s no tension pulling us there, just an understanding that some things are better said in person, where eyes and posture carry as much weight as words. We choose a bar near the river, the kind of place no one goes to be seen, where the light is low and the music stays politely in the background.
When I arrive, Matteo is already there. He’s standing instead of sitting, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hands loose at his sides. He looks like a man reminding himself that this isn’t a battlefield.
“You didn’t have to come early,” I say as I approach.
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to feel like I was waiting.”
We exchange a nod that holds years inside it, then sit across from each other. For a moment, neither of us reaches for the menu or the glasses on the table. The silence isn’t hostile. It’s dense, layered with history that no longer needs to be unpacked to be acknowledged.
“She’s happy,” Matteo says at last, his voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
“I know,” I reply. “I can hear it when she speaks.”
He watches my face closely. “And you’re… all right with that?”
I consider the question instead of answering quickly. “I’m more than all right,” I say. “I’m steady.”
Something in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. “Good.”
We order drinks, something simple, and when the glasses arrive, I lift mine slightly toward him.
“Congratulations,” I say again, this time without distance.
He meets the gesture. “Thank you.”
We drink, and the conversation settles into a rhythm that surprises me with its ease.
“I won’t pretend it didn’t scare me once,” I say after a while. “The idea of all of this. What it would mean.”
Matteo nods slowly. “It scared me too.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”
He smiles faintly. “I knew the only way it could work was if no one tried to win.”
“That wasn’t how we were taught,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees. “We were taught love was territory. Whoever held the ground longest deserved it.”
I lean back, considering him in a new light. “Turns out it’s closer to architecture.”
His eyes flicker with interest. “How so?”
“You don’t conquer it,” I say. “You build it so it doesn’t collapse under the weight of ego.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like recognition. “That’s exactly it.”
We sit with that for a moment, the river moving steadily outside the windows, indifferent and grounding.
“She didn’t disappear,” I say quietly. “That mattered more than I knew how to articulate at the time.”
Matteo’s expression softens. “Lucia was clear from the beginning. No erasure. No hierarchy pretending to be kindness.”
“And you listened,” I add.
“I didn’t at first,” he admits. “I learned the hard way what happens when you mistake fear for structure.”
I meet his gaze. “We built something strange.”
“But honest,” he says without hesitation.
The word settles between us, not like a conclusion but like a foundation. I extend my hand across the table, not as a gesture of victory or surrender, but recognition.
He takes it immediately.
The handshake is firm, unshowy, two men who once believed they needed to outmaneuver each other now standing on equal ground without armor.
“She’ll be an incredible mother,” I say, feeling no conflict as the words leave me.
“She already is,” Matteo replies. “In ways she doesn’t even see.”
I smile at that, because it’s true. “She never did.”
The conversation drifts then, away from Serafina and into quieter territory. We talk about children and the terror of wanting to do better than the men who came before us. We talk about how easy it is to confuse control with care, and how hard it is to unlearn that without burning everything down in the process.
Before we part, Matteo pauses near the door, hand on the frame.
“You know,” he says, turning back to me, “I don’t see you as outside this.”
I shake my head gently. “I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
He studies me, then nods. “Good.”