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I closed the file. Stared coldly at Isabella. No hesitation. Two icy words.

"Not going."

Chapter 27

Ruby

The early autumn wind off the Adriatic swept through Venice's canals, splashing golden sunlight across the weathered red brick floor.

On the wide wooden cutting table in the studio lay several bolts of vintage lace with subtle patterns and white satin. The air held the scent of cotton and linen steaming from the hot iron, mingled with the faint milky sweetness that clung to toddlers.

"Mamma! Guarda!"

A pair of chubby little hands suddenly wrapped around my calf, and a head nuzzled against my knee like a baby koala. "Mamma, look! Birds eating bread on the bridge!"

My scissors paused. I set down the measuring tape with a laugh and scooped the little bundle into my arms.

Three-year-old Leon was solidly built, with soft dark brown curls tumbling over his forehead and cheeks still rounded with baby fat. But the moment those eyes lifted to look at you, anyone familiar with New York's social circles would gasp—

They were the exact same gray-green as Marcelo Moretti's.

Clear, penetrating, with an innate focus and sharpness. Even his straight nose and the set of his thin lips were like a scaled-down replica of that man.

The tablet on the worktable still flickered with a video call.

Mary sat in her rocking chair back in New Jersey, her hair mostly gray now but her complexion healthier and rosier than four years ago. Four years and an ocean between us had finally worn down those hysterical arguments into gentle reminders. During her first year of recovery, after we'd finally broken down crying over a transatlantic call, the wounds and resentments between mother and daughter had slowly begun to heal.

"Nonna!" Leon wriggled in my arms, waving his short arms at the screen in crisp English. "So many pigeons today!"

"Oh, my little sweetheart, have you been good for Mamma today?" Mary's face crinkled with smile lines on screen, her eyes full of affection.

Leon nodded obediently, but was quickly distracted by a seagull sweeping past the window. He squirmed down from my lap. "I want to see the pigeons! See the birds!"

"Careful of the windowsill. Don't climb up, you hear me, Leon?" I called after him.

"Okay!" The little guy padded across in his soft wool socks, his short legs carrying him toward the low window overlooking the canal. He pressed himself against the sill, mesmerized by the gondolas on the water.

Watching him run off, Mary's expression slowly dimmed, worry settling into her eyes.

"Ruby." Mary lowered her voice, sighing. "Leon... he looks more like him every day. When he smiled at the camera just now, those eyes—it was like that man was standing right in front of me."

My fingertips trembled almost imperceptibly.

"He's just Leon, Mom." I picked up the tailor's chalk and drew a white line along the fabric's edge. "He's just my son."

"I know you love that child, but you can't hide him in a little Venice workshop forever." Mary's voice held harsh reality and anxiety. "He'll be four soon. He needs a proper private preschool. Venice is lovely, but the best bilingual education and art programs are in the big cities. What you've made these years doing custom work—after rent and fabric costs, what's left? And his future, his education, his growth—every bit of it needs serious money behind it."

Mary's words were a needle, striking precisely at the vulnerability I'd been avoiding.

In four years in Venice, I'd used my last savings to rent a small shop facing the canal. Starting with hemming neighbors' pants, I'd built "Wild Rose" stitch by stitch. Plus-size women struggled to find clothes that fit, so I drafted my own patterns. Postpartum mothers wanted to nurse without sacrificing style, so I designed hidden snaps and stretch fabrics. Four years later, my brand had over a hundred thousand Instagram followers—enough to support Leon and me.

But art was a luxury. Independent brands survived brutally.

After hanging up, the studio fell silent except for canal water lapping against the stone steps.

I turned to Leon, crouched at the window with colored pencils, scribbling on paper. Sunlight fell on his dark brown curls, gilding them with warmth.

Four years.