Chapter6
1471 Words
By the time Thursday morning arrived, Elena had convinced herself she could pretend it was just another normal day.
She brewed coffee, organized invoices, and checked client emails. She even managed to retouch the faded edge of a sixteenth-century Florentine Madonna without her hand trembling.
But normalcy was a fragile illusion.
It shattered the moment the studio bell chimed—and she looked up to see a sharply dressed man standing in her doorway, holding a sleek envelope.
Not him.
But the kind of man who worked for him.
“Ms. Rossi?” he asked.
Elena stood slowly, instinct already tightening in her chest. “Yes?”
“I have a delivery. Direct from Mr. DeLuca’s office.”
She hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides. “I didn’t request anything.”
“I understand. He asked me to place it in your hands, personally.”
Her pulse jumped. She nodded stiffly and accepted the envelope. The man gave a shallow bow of his head and left, the bell jingling once more.
Elena stared at the heavy cream paper in her hands for several seconds before breaking the seal.
Inside was a letter, short and direct—typed, formal, unmistakably Luca.
> Ms. Rossi,
I’d like to revisit our conversation. I believe I may have misjudged the situation. Would you consider joining me for lunch at Marcellino, Friday at noon? No assistants. No lawyers. Just clarity.
– L. DeLuca
Elena read it twice. Then a third time.
She set it on her desk and walked to the back of the studio, her breath shallow. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she knew Luca DeLuca didn’t revisit anything without a reason.
He wasn’t interested in preserving art.
He was interested in her.
And now, she feared, he suspected something.
She leaned against the brick wall, pressing her hands against the cool surface to steady herself.
It had been a decade since Florence. A decade since she'd kissed him goodbye, whispered she’d write, and watched him disappear without explanation or warning. A decade since she’d found out she was pregnant—alone, scared, barely twenty years old in a country that wasn’t hers.
She had spent years rebuilding a life, stone by fragile stone. She had protected her daughter, hidden her past, and buried the pain.
Now, all it had taken was one building deal… and everything was coming undone.
“Elena?”
Her mother’s voice floated from the back entrance.
Elena turned as Rosa Rossi entered the studio, holding Sofia’s school lunchbox in one hand and a concerned expression in the other.
“She forgot this,” Rosa said. “And you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Elena forced a smile and took the lunchbox. “Just… a client. A complicated one.”
Rosa eyed the envelope on the desk. “What is he doing?”
Elena nodded.
Her mother walked over, picked up the letter, read it silently, then set it down with a sigh. “He knows.”
“I don’t think he knows everything,” Elena whispered. “But he knows something. He’s digging.”
“And if he finds out?” Rosa asked gently.
Elena sank into her chair. “I don’t know. He’s not the man I knew. He’s powerful now. Strategic. I don’t know what he’ll do if he realizes Sofia is his.”
“You think he’ll try to take her?”
The words made her throat close.
“I don’t know what he’s capable of anymore,” Elena said, voice tight. “But I can’t let her get caught in the middle of this.”
Rosa pulled up a chair and took her daughter’s hand.
“You’ve done everything alone. You’ve given Sofia a beautiful life. But Elena…” She hesitated. “You’ve also run from this truth for a long time. Maybe it’s time to stop running.”
“I’m not running,” Elena snapped, then immediately softened. “I’m protecting her.”
“I know. But protection without truth… can turn into fear.”
They sat in silence for a while. Outside, the city moved on as if no lives were hanging in the balance.
Elena knew what she had to do.
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Friday, Noon
Marcellino – Midtown Manhattan
The restaurant was as sleek as she remembered—white tablecloths, low jazz, and chandeliers made of crystal leaves. It hadn’t changed in ten years. And neither, it seemed, had Luca’s taste in control.
He was already seated when she arrived. Tailored navy suit. Gold cufflinks. No phone in hand. No watch-checking. Just watching.
Waiting.
Elena approached with slow steps, each one measured.
“Ms. Rossi,” he said, standing to pull out her chair.
“Mr. DeLuca,” she replied, her voice calm despite the storm beneath it.
They sat.
For a moment, there was only the sound of clinking glass and murmured conversation from other tables.
“I appreciate you coming,” Luca said.
“I almost didn’t,” Elena replied.
“I suspected as much.”
A waiter arrived with menus. They ordered—him, a dry martini and grilled branzino; her, only sparkling water.
When they were alone again, Luca leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “You said something to me in my office. About remembering. It’s been on my mind.”
Elena stayed silent.
“I’ve been thinking,” he continued, “about Florence. About the summer I disappeared.”
Elena’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“You went by a different name then,” he said. “Just Elena. No last name. You never told me where you were from. But you spoke Italian like a native. And you always said you wanted to bring beauty back to life.”
“I’m surprised you remember,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t. Not right away. But then you looked at me… like you knew exactly who I was. Not the CEO. Not the brand. Me. And suddenly, it all came rushing back.”
Elena’s fingers tightened around her glass.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.
“Why didn’t you?” she shot back. “You vanished, Luca. No goodbye. No explanation. I thought you’d died.”
He winced. “I didn’t have a choice. My father pulled me out and buried the whole thing. He controlled everything—my phone, my accounts. By the time I had access again, I couldn’t find you. Your gallery has closed. You’d disappeared.”
“Because I was pregnant,” she said flatly.
Silence.
“I left Florence because I had to. My visa was temporary. And when I tried to reach you? Nothing. No replies. No address. No one who’d even admit you existed.”
Luca sat perfectly still. His expression was unreadable—but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table.
“She’s mine,” he said.
Elena nodded.
A long beat passed.
“What’s her name?”
“Sofia.”
He exhaled—one breath, long and low. “How old?”
“Nine.”
Luca’s jaw worked. “And you never told me. Never gave me the chance.”
“You had your chance,” Elena said. “Ten years ago. I waited. I begged the embassy for help. I sent letters that came back unopened.”
“You should have tried again.”
“I shouldn’t have had to,” she snapped. “I was nineteen. Alone. Terrified. I did what I had to do.”
Emotion cracked through her voice, and she hated that he saw it.
Luca looked at her then—not with judgment, or calculation—but with something else. Something almost broke.
“I want to meet her.”
Elena froze.
“She doesn’t know who you are,” she said. “She knows about you. That you’re her father. But not… your name. Your face.”
“I’d never hurt her,” Luca said. “Or you.”
“You wouldn’t have to. You could still take her from me. You have the money. The influence.”
Luca leaned in, voice low.
“I don’t want custody battles. I want the truth. I want time. I want to know the girl who carries my name.”
Elena stared at him. For the first time in a decade, she didn’t see a billionaire. She saw the boy from Florence. The one who had once drawn her portrait on a napkin in the middle of a field.
And she saw something else, too—regret.
“Then take i
t slowly,” she said. “On my terms.”
He nodded. “Agreed.”
They sat in silence.
But in that stillness, something shifted.
The past wasn’t just haunting them anymore.
It was demanding a future.
- Writer
