Page 193 of The Thief
Vittoria. My best friend from Belfast, now married to Lorenzo's father. Life has a strange way of connecting people.
"I should go say hello properly," I tell Freddie.
"Want company?"
"Take Henry Stephen to see Uncle Stephen. I'll be right back."
I make my way through the crowd, past tables full of Boston's most dangerous families trying to look respectable for the cameras. The kind of gathering that would have terrified me two years ago. Now it just feels like business.
"Tríona!" Vittoria stands when she sees me approaching, her face lighting up with genuine pleasure. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk."
"You look beautiful," I tell her, and mean it. Marriage suits her. Motherhood too. She's got that glow that comes from being exactly where you're supposed to be.
"So do you. Though you look tired."
"Long flight with a toddler. You know how it is."
"I do indeed." She glances at Matteo, who's now trying to fold his napkin into various animal shapes. "This one kept me up until midnight asking questions about airplanes."
"Speaking of keeping you up," I say, sitting in the empty chair beside her. "How are you adjusting to Boston?"
"Better than I expected."
"And Lorenzo?"
"A good stepson. Protective of Matteo, respectful to me. He was worried I was only marrying his father for the wrong reasons, but I think he sees now that it's real."
I study her face, looking for signs of doubt or regret. I find none. Just contentment, the kind that comes from making the right choice, even if it wasn't the expected one.
"I'm glad you're happy."
"I'm glad you are too. When you disappeared from Belfast, I was terrified something had happened to you."
"Something did happen. Just not what either of us expected."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the reception flow around us. Two women who've found their way from arranged marriages to real love, from Belfast to Dublin to Boston, from survival to happiness.
"Tríona," Vittoria says quietly, "there's something I need to tell you."
"What?"
"Your mother contacted me last month."
The words hit like a physical blow. Mam. Who left me alone in Belfast when Dad died, who disappeared to London without a word.
"What did she want?"
"To know if you were safe. If you were happy. She's been trying to find you for months."
"And you told her?"
"Only that you were alive and well. Nothing more. I wasn't sure if you'd want contact."
I take a deep breath, processing this information. Part of me is angry—furious that she'd try to come back into my life after abandoning me. But another part, the part that still misses her despite everything, wonders what she wanted to say.
"Did she leave a number?"
"She did. I can give it to you if you want. Or not. Your choice entirely."
