Page 196 of This Life of Mine

Like taking my beautiful Queen to Queens.

I took Lina there for a long weekend. Showed her my bachelor pad—the quiet, solitary life I lived before everything shifted. We walked the city without an agenda. Ate our way through neighborhoods under the respectable label of market research. And for once, I let it be.

Watching her light up—absorbing everything, asking questions, laughing at things I’d long stopped noticing—was surreal. Like seeing the city through new eyes. Through hers.

I also teach her Krav Maga now. She proved she’s capable under pressure. I want her to have every tool she needs to trust herself. To never feel powerless.

She’s strong and learns fast. And her determination is sexy as hell.

Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

When I look at her now—thriving and laughing—I know this isn’t temporary. This isn’t an escape. This is a life. This beautiful life of mine.

The danger didn’t win. The past didn’t claim us. And for the first time, I’m not looking over my shoulder. I’m focused on what comes next. With her.

My phone has been buzzing nonstop in my pocket.

Short bursts. One after another. Insistent enough that I notice, but not enough that I can break away. The coffee bar is slammed, orders stacked, and I’m in the middle of a cadence I would rather not disrupt.

Lina is in the kitchen, humming as she works, flour dusting her forearms, the way it always does when she’s in her element. I’m on barista duty, sleeves rolled up, knocking out drinks at asteady pace. It’s busy, but manageable—the kind of controlled chaos I’ve grown strangely fond of.

Kay leans in beside me. “I’m going to help a customer find a book. The others are tied up.”

“No problem,” I tell her. “I’ve got this.”

She slips away, and I turn back to the machine, milk steaming, espresso pulling. I hear footsteps approaching and speak without turning their way.

“I’ll be right with you.”

And then—the smell hits me.

My chest restricts before my brain catches up. Leather. Citrus. Something gloomier underneath. A cologne I haven’t smelled in years. A scent burned so deep into my memory it might as well be muscle memory. My father’s cologne.

My hands freeze on the counter.

Then the voice comes—deep, smooth, unmistakable. “I hear the focaccia is amazing here. I would love to test that theory.”

The accent is heavy Italian. Polished. Commanding.

My pulse spikes.

I brace both hands on the counter, grounding myself, forcing my breathing to stay even. In that briefest moment, I pretend I didn’t hear. But I turn.

And there he is.

Hazel eyes—my eyes—staring back at me like a mirror I didn’t ask to face. He looks older. Harder. Time hasn’t softened him; it’s dulled the edges. Lines carved deep around his mouth. A weight behind his gaze that wasn’t there when I was a boy.

Life has been unkind to him. Or maybe it finally demanded payment.

He studies me the way men like him always do—measuring, assessing, claiming space without moving an inch.

Then he smiles knowingly.

“Ciao, figlio mio,” he says.Hello, my son.

The bakery noise fades into the background. The hiss of steam. The clink of cups. Lina’s laughter from the kitchen, unaware that my past walked through the door.

I straighten, every instinct screaming at once.