Page 106 of Forgive Me, Father

He leaned back slightly, one hand casually gripping the steering wheel as he looked at me sideways.“No.So, I’ll have to kill you if you tell.And Ireallydon’t want to kill you, Cami.”

“Whatever,” I scoffed, pushing his arm.“I think it’s sweet.”

“She’s my Nonna,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges.“My actual, real first love.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.Maybe I’d been wrong about who shaped him most.Maybe it wasn’t his Nonno who left the deepest imprint—maybe it was her.

THIRTY-FOUR

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

A week later,under the cover of early morning shadows, Alfonso and I helped smuggle his Nonna out of his aunt’s tightly monitored villa like we were executing a covert mission.She whispered a rapid-fire string of Italian as we slipped through the side gate, her eyes gleaming with delight, not fear.Alfonso chuckled, replying with something that made her cackle like a mischievous teenager.

“She just called Mavis a bulldog in lipstick,” he whispered to me as we reached the car.

The drive to the airport was smooth and quiet, a shared secret wrapped in the hum of the engine and the anticipation of escape.The private flight to Atrani took barely an hour, but it felt like crossing into another world.

Atrani was breathtaking—like something plucked straight from a dream or an old Italian film.A picturesque cliffside village where time had decided to slow down, letting everything breathe.Pastel buildings stacked on narrow winding streets, the scent of lemon trees on the breeze, and the endless shimmer of the Tyrrhenian Sea below.

Alfonso had arranged everything.A cozy terracotta-roofed cottage perched just above the waterline waited for his Nonna, tucked between flowering bougainvillea and the sound of distant church bells.She walked in like she’d lived there all her life.

That afternoon, she cooked for us with flour-dusted hands and a gleam in her eyes, telling me stories so vivid I could see the past flickering in the kitchen light.She made pasta from scratch, humming as she worked, her rhythm unhurried, like happiness had its own tempo here.

“Don’t believe everything she tells you,” Alfonso murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath skimmed my ear.

She barked something sharp and commanding in Italian before smacking him lightly with a dish towel.He laughed, kissed her on the cheek, and left the house, obedient and amused.

I turned back to her, heart full.I could listen to her forever.

“I know my Alfonso is hard around the edges,” Nonna said, her eyes on the simmering pot, hands moving with grace carved from years of living.“But he was a good boy once.”

“Was?”I asked gently.

She sighed, the kind that carried more weight than words.“His father—my son—was never strong enough in my Henrici’s eyes.So, when Alfonso turned fifteen, Henrici took him.Molded him.Broke him, really.Taught him the Pontisello way, his way.And just like that, my sweet, soft-eyed boy vanished.”

Her voice caught slightly, but her spine remained straight.“But now and then, I see him again.Today, maybe that’s because of you.”

I smiled at her, and warmth bloomed in my chest.I wanted to believe that, needed to.So, it was the old man who’d carved the edges of Alfonso into something sharp and unyielding.

“You know you’re his favorite?”I said, glancing sideways at her.

“Of all his family?”She asked.

“Of everyone,” I replied.

Her laughter was like honey and sunlight—pure joy, unfiltered.“He told me once that I was his first real love.”

“He told me that, too,” I whispered.

Her eyes softened.“He’s good to you?”

“Yes,” I said honestly.“Though we both know he carries a fire that’s not easily tamed.”

She nodded, solemn now.“In everything, love, anger, even sorrow.But he doesn't allow the sadness.That’s the trouble with Pontisello men, they don’t cry.They believe it makes them weak.But we women, we know better.Tears clean the soul.”

I remembered that night on the yacht.The way he shook when he cried.“I can see where he gets his passion from.”

She chuckled, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear.“I’ll take that compliment.”

---