I understood something in these months and I’m glad for it. Franco mourned Sergio. He was devastated by his loss and it made me see a different side of him. A human side. Still cold. Still manipulative and all powerful, but human. This is the one thing Franco Benedetti and I have in common. We’re both hurting over the loss of Sergio.

So we came to an agreement. Franco Benedetti will still be a part of my son’s life, but he won’t be in it, not now. Not yet. I’ll deal with the future later.

I named my son Jacob Sergio Benedetti. And when he looked at me the first time, I was grateful that he did look like Sergio after all. It hurt, but it also reminded me of him. And I don’t want to forget Sergio. I don’t want to forget a minute of the little bit of time we had together. And the baby we made, the love I feel for him is sometimes overwhelming.

It’s almost eleven at night when the doorbell rings. It’s Salvatore. He usually visits once a month, but I’m not expecting him for a few weeks, and when he comes, he usually comes early in the morning to spend time with Jacob. Although, we’ve become friends since Sergio’s death and I like him. He struggles with the life he’s now bound to lead. It’s strange, he thinks of things so differently than Sergio did.

Something’s up, though, because Salvatore called not twenty minutes ago to see if I was home. Asked if he could come.

“Hey, Salvatore,” I say, opening the door.

He’s preoccupied. It takes him a minute to even say hello back.

“Come on in,” I say, opening the door wider.

“Why is it so quiet?”

“It’s late. Jacob’s asleep.”

“Oh.” It’s like he didn’t realize the time. He steps in, stops. Shakes his head with a snort as if he were continuing some conversation in his mind.

“What’s going on?” I ask when I close the door.

He navigates around the toys to sit on the couch. “You have something to drink?”

“Sure.” I get him a whiskey, take the seat beside him and pour myself a tumbler, too. I started to drink the stuff in the last few months. Just a little now and again. It still burns, but it’s Sergio’s favorite brand and it reminds me of him, of us sitting together while he drank a glass. The smell alone will do it, but the burn, it’s what I crave some nights.

Salvatore takes a swallow then focuses his attention on swirling the amber liquid around.

“I have to claim her,” he says.

“What?”

He looks at me. “Lucia DeMarco. Her time’s almost up.”