Page 150 of This Life of Mine

I’ve lived my life guarded and compartmentalized. It feels strangely grounding—to be seen like this.

There’s a moment where I consider stopping.

Letting the story end where it is. Where it’s still soft around the edges. Where my past feels distant enough not to bleed into the present.

But Lina didn’t ask for fragments. She asked to knowme.

“There’s more I must tell you, Lina,” I say.

Her hand tightens around mine—not urging, not pulling away. Just there.

“My father,” I continue, “doesn’t simply own a vineyard.”

She tilts her head slightly, listening.

“Yes, the wine business is real. Renowned. Old money. But it’s not the whole picture.” I breathe in. “He owns strip clubs. Nightclubs. Other businesses—here in the States. Some of them are legitimate. Some of them are…convenient.”

Her expression stays steady.

“They’re used as cover,” I say. “For moving money. Cleaning it. Expanding influence.”

I don’t dress it up. There’s no point.

“And with that kind of power,” I add, “comes enemies. People who want territory. Influence and leverage.”

Lina’s grip on my hand doesn’t loosen.

“My mother,” I say, voice tightening despite myself, “was raped and murdered to send a message to my father.”

The words land like they always do—final and unforgiving.

“They knew he loved her,” I continue. “So they hurt her to hurt him.”

Silence fills the kitchen.

“I was in Boston when it happened,” I say. “College internship. I wasn’t there for her when she needed my protection.”

Lina’s other hand comes up to cover her mouth, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“My father wanted me in the business,” I go on. “Not as the heir—that was always my brother, Nico. But he wanted me close. Watching his back. Family loyalty.”

I turn my head. “But after my mother died…no one showed up for us. No protection. No justice. Just silence.”

My attention drifts to our joined hands.

“That was the moment I knew I wanted no part of that life.”

“So I left,” I say. “I changed my name. Changed everything.”

I meet her eyes again, fully now. “My real name is Alessandro Moretti.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“I now go by Alex Lombardi,” I finish. “Because the man I was born as came with expectations—and a future I refuse to inherit.”

The room is quiet, sunlight pooling on the floor like nothing monumental has been said.

“I’m telling you this,” I say, “because you asked me to be honest. And because whatever we are—whatever this becomes—you deserve to know who you’re choosing.”