Page 54 of Forsaken Promises

Not now. Not yet.

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“Miss Sofia,”Marco says as he opens the door. “It’s good to see you again so soon.”

I take in a deep breath, the familiar scents of Rosa’s cooking wafting through the air, the soft strains of Italian music drifting from the kitchen. It’s like a balm to my weary soul.

But as I make my way to my father’s bedroom, my heart grows heavy with dread. I know what I’ll find behind that door—the once-vibrant man I’ve always looked up to, now weakened and diminished by the cruel ravages of illness.

How could this have happened so soon after my wedding?

As I enter my father's bedroom, I’m surprised to find him sitting up in bed, a lap desk piled high with papers and folders balanced across his knees. His underboss, Victorio Tenebre, sits nearby him as they discuss matters of business. Even in his weakened state, my father’s brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen scratching across the page with a familiar intensity as he murmurs something to Victorio.

For a moment, I just stand there, taking in the sight of him. Despite the obvious toll his illness has taken, there’s still a spark in his eyes, a determination that not even cancer can completely extinguish.

“Papa,” I say softly, a teasing lilt to my voice. “Don’t you know you're supposed to be resting? Even when you’re sick, you're still such a workaholic.”

Both men look up at the sound of my voice, Papa’s face breaking into a wide, joyful smile. “Ah, Sofia, my darling. You know me—I’ve never been one to sit idle. There’s always work to be done, deals to be made. Victorio has been doing his best, but I still need to steer the ship.”

I shake my head, moving to perch on the edge of his bed, smiling at Victorio. “Right now, you need to focus on getting your strength back.”

“I’ve been saying the same thing, Sofia,” Victorio says, shaking his head and getting up. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Papa chuckles, setting aside his pen and reaching out to take my hand in his as Victorio closes the door. “Always so bossy, just like your mother. But I suppose you’re right. I can spare a few hours to spend with my favorite eldest daughter.”

“You'd better believe I'm going to monopolize every minute of your time today.” I squeeze his hand gently.

He grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I wouldn't have it any other way, my dear. Now, what shall we do with this precious time together?”

I smile, already reaching for the stack of well-worn records on his bedside table. “I thought we could start with some music. All your old favorites, the songs we used to dance to when I was a little girl.”

His face softens with nostalgia, a faraway look in his eyes. “Ah, yes. I remember those days well. You, standing on my feet as I waltzed you around the living room. Your mother, shaking her head and pretending to scold us, even as she smiled behind her hand.”

I nod, a lump forming in my throat at the memory. “Those were good days, Papa. Some of the happiest of my life.”

He reaches out, cupping my cheek with a weathered hand. “Mine too, my darling. Mine too.”

As I put on the first record, the soft strains of an old Italian love song fill the room. I settle back onto the bed beside him. We sit there together, hand in hand, letting the music transport us back to simpler times.

And for a little while, at least, it’s like nothing has changed..

But even as we lose ourselves in the melody, in the comfort of each other’s presence… I can’t ignore the shadow that looms over us. The knowledge that our time together is precious, finite.

That every moment is a gift, one that could be snatched away at any time.

It breaks my heart to see him like this, to know that the strong, vital man I've always relied on is slowly slipping away. But I force myself to stay present, to savor every laugh and every story, every squeeze of his hand in mine.

My sisters and mother soon join us, and the house fills with laughter and chatter and the clinking of glasses. We feast on all of my father’s favorite foods—rich, hearty pasta dishes and delicious roasted meats, fresh bread still warm from the oven and decadent desserts that melt on the tongue.

Through it all, my father looks delighted, his eyes twinkling with mischief and his laughter booming out across the room. For a few precious hours, it’s like the shadow of illness has lifted, like we’ve all been granted a reprieve from the inexorable march of time.

But as my father’s energy starts to flag, I can see the toll that the day has taken on him. His movements are slower, more labored, and there’s a weariness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.

It breaks my heart to see him like this. I force myself to stay present, to savor every laugh and every story, every hug and every kiss on the cheek.

My heart feels both heavy and full as I leave the house after giving my father an impossibly tight hug. The day spent with my family, surrounded by love and laughter and the bittersweet knowledge of our limited time together, has left me feeling raw and exposed, but also grateful beyond measure.

As I slide into the car, my thoughts drift to Dom, to the tentative new beginning we’ve forged. And suddenly, an idea takes root in my mind, a spark of inspiration that fills me with a sense of excitement and purpose.

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