Page 113 of Forgive Me, Father

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

It was a shock to learn Fiona had been in an accident.

The woman was a pain in my ass and the polar opposite of her brothers when it came to how she treated me, but no one deserved to come that close to death.

I was still holding my phone when a message lit up the screen.Just two words.

Ti Amo.

My lips curved before I could stop them.Everyone knows whatTi Amomeans.You don’t need to speak a word of Italian to feel its weight.

Did he mean it?Or was he just saying it because I’d teased him earlier?

It didn’t matter.The heat from those two little words spread through my chest like a sunrise.

Three months ago, he’d been a stranger.Now, I couldn’t picture a single version of my life without him in it.

* * *

He didn’t come home either.I was a big girl and could take care of myself perfectly fine.

Today was also the first day of my art lesson.I had been ticking it off on the calendar for the past two weeks.

During the morning, I texted with Alfonso.He wasn’t very talkative but I knew it was because he was busy.

Around eleven, I got a text.

Enjoy your art class.

It brought a smile to my lips as I got ready for my afternoon activity.

Around twelve, I left for my first art class.It was something I wanted to pursue.Alfonso did say I needed a hobby, other than fucking him.

He actually discovered the art classes and enrolled me.

I said goodbye to Nico’s mom as I took one of the smaller cars.

I still stumbled with the steering wheel on the right-hand side.It was one of those European quirks, and it kept throwing me off, reminding me how everything here felt foreign.Even the smallest details felt wrong—the street signs, the sounds, the way the air smelled different.And then there was him.My husband.The man I had known for so long, but lately, he wasn’t the same.Neither of us was.The shift between us, the quiet things changing, meant we were no longer just two people bound by an agreement.Something more was emerging, and I couldn’t quite grasp what it was yet.

I barely made it in time and profusely apologized for my tardiness.The teacher nodded and I took my seat behind the only open easel, putting my bag down and taking in my little station filled with water paint tubes, jugs of water, and different shapes of brushes.

“My name is Lorenzo Mancusi and I will be your lector today.”

He spoke about the square and the light the sun provided like an artist.

The sun poured down over the cobblestones of the square, the ancient buildings around us draped in the warm glow of late morning.There was something about this place that felt sacred.The sound of chatter and clinking café cups blended with the occasional ring of church bells.

Lorenzo stood at the center of the group, his dark eyes scanning the vibrant scene before us—locals sipping espresso, the flow of tourists, the soft rustle of pigeons in the piazza’s fountain.

"Look beyond the chaos," he said, his voice sharp yet soothing, "find the quiet moments that hold the true story."

I glanced at my canvas, feeling the weight of his words.The square was alive with movement, but it was the shadows beneath the archways, the stillness of the statues, that I wanted to capture.Slowly, I began to paint, letting my brush move without thinking.I was no longer just observing, I was part of it, part of this timeless rhythm, and the colors on my canvas began to speak the truth I couldn’t put into words.

After class, I lingered for a moment and approached Lorenzo.

"Would you like to grab a coffee?We could talk about the next class, if you're up for it," he offered.

"Sure," I smiled, still buzzing from the lesson.There was a fire inside me, a hunger to learn more.It felt like we had only scratched the surface.I couldn't wait to dive deeper into whatever he had to teach next.

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