Page 204 of This Life of Mine

No pleasantries. No performance. He doesn’t seem offended. Or even surprised. If anything, he seems…pleased. Like I’ve confirmed something for him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, smiling gently. “You vanished, Alessandro. Do you have any idea what that does to a family?”

There it is. My real name, spoken like a possession.

“You disappeared,” he continues, tone calm, wounded in a way that feels rehearsed. “No word. No trace. Do you know how that looked? How thatfelt?”

I give a humorless breath. “You didn’t look very hard.”

His eyes sharpen for half a second—hinting to me I hit something true—then soften again.

“You were always impulsive,” he says. “But you are still my son. And Nico’s brother. You have responsibilities.”

Lina shifts beside me. She’s listening, absorbing every word, piecing things together faster than my father realizes.

“You’re needed,” he goes on. “By your family. By your brother. Nico needs you at his side, my son. That was always the plan.”

“The plan?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “Blood does not absolve itself simply because you walk away.”

Then his gaze drifts over me—taking in the man I’ve become. The life I chose. The name I wear.

“And this,” he adds, voice still even, still controlled, “thisAlex Lombardinonsense…it’s disappointing.“ He gives a small shake of his head, like I’ve made a childish mistake.

“Alessandro Morettidoes not simply stop existing,“ he says. “That name means something. This—“ he gestures vaguely atme, at my life, ”—is a slap in the face. To me. To everything you come from.”

He says it calmly. As if I bruisedhim.

I feel Lina’s hand brush my arm—grounding. She’s steady, but I can tell this has landed hard. On both of us.

My father looks between us now, something calculating flickering behind his eyes.

“But,” he says smoothly, “we will talk. You and I. There is time.”

No, there isn’t. I will never give him my time again.

“No,” I say.

The word lands hard. Final.

“I put that life behind me a long time ago. I moved on.Alexis who I am now.“ I don’t raise my voice. It’s not necessary for me to. “And I will never beAlessandro Morettiagain.”

Something cracks. It’s not anger or fury but rather something sad…

My father lets out a weary breath, like a man bracing himself. “I know you’re angry,” he says, measured. “About your mother.”

Lina stiffens beside me.

“I never stopped loving her,” he continues. “When they hurt her, it destroyed me. I mourned her. I raged. I made them pay—first in Italy. I dismantled everyone who could have touched her.”

His eyes shine, but I’ve seen this before. Grief polished into justification.

“When I made it to Queens to finish it,” he says in a low murmur, “you were already gone.”

I laugh then. A short, hollow sound.

“She died long before that,” I say.