Chapter 9 - She Chose Her Career Over the Mafia Boss—So He Bought a Train Ticket Instead of a RingFor the first three months, they made distance look easy.
It wasn't.
Arya lived in Manhattan Monday through Thursday.
She returned Friday night.
Damiano visited Wednesdays when he could.
They learned train schedules.
Video calls.
The specific loneliness of loving someone whose coffee cup was not beside yours in the morning.
But something remarkable happened.
Nobody demanded sacrifice.
When Arya worked late, Damiano didn't accuse her of choosing work over him.
When Damiano had therapy, foundation meetings, or dinners with Elena, Arya didn't expect him to cancel.
They missed each other without turning missing into blame.
That was new.
Healthy love, Arya discovered, could occasionally be boring.
She loved that.
Then the phone call came.
Her mother.
Arya hadn't spoken to her in nearly a year.
“Arya.”
The voice brought back an entirely different childhood version of fear.
“Mom.”
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Your father is sick.”
Arya sat down.
“How sick?”
“Heart surgery.”
“When?”
“Thursday.”
Two days.
“Why am I only hearing now?”
Silence.
Then:
“Your father didn't want to call.”
Of course.
Arya closed her eyes.
Her parents had not supported her after Marcus.
They had asked what she had done to provoke him.
They had worried about embarrassment.
Appearances.
Gossip.
They had eventually apologized.
Badly.
Arya had accepted the apology without reopening the relationship.
Now her father might die.
And she didn't know what she felt.
Damiano arrived that night.
He didn't give advice.
He made pasta.
Bad pasta.
Arya ate it anyway.
“What do you think I should do?” she finally asked.
“Do you actually want my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“I think you should make the decision you'll be able to live with if he dies.”
Arya looked at him.
“That's dark.”
“It's also honest.”
She sighed.
“I don't know if I forgive him.”
“Seeing him doesn't mean you forgive him.”
“I don't know if I love him.”
“You don't have to answer that before Thursday.”
She leaned back.
“Why are relationships so complicated?”
“Because people are terrible.”
She laughed.
“You are uniquely bad at comfort.”
“I made pasta.”
“You murdered pasta.”
“Still counts.”
Arya went to the hospital.
Her father looked smaller.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Parents weren't supposed to shrink.
He looked at her.
“Arya.”
“Hi, Dad.”
Her mother left them alone.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Finally her father said, “I was wrong.”
Arya stared.
He continued.
“About Marcus.”
She waited.
“About you.”
Still she waited.
“I thought keeping things private protected the family.”
Arya almost laughed.
The phrase was too familiar.
Damiano's father.
Elena.
Secrets.
Reputation.
Families sacrificing people to preserve appearances.
Her father looked at his hands.
“I taught you to tolerate things you shouldn't have tolerated.”
Tears filled Arya's eyes.
“You did.”
“I know.”
“You told me relationships were hard and I needed to stop being dramatic.”
“I know.”
“You told me Marcus was successful and respectable.”
“I know.”
“I was scared to go home because I thought you'd tell me to go back.”
Her father's face broke.
“I know.”
Arya cried.
Not because the apology fixed anything.
It didn't.
Some damage could be acknowledged without being erased.
“I don't forgive you yet.”
He nodded.
“You don't have to.”
That mattered.
Maybe not enough.
But something.
The surgery succeeded.
Arya returned to New York.
Life continued.
Then one evening in December, she arrived at her apartment and found Damiano sitting outside her door.
On the floor.
Wearing a tuxedo.
Holding takeout.
She stared.
“What happened?”
“The restaurant refused to seat me.”
“Why?”
“Because my reservation was for two.”
Arya blinked.
“Where was the second person?”
“You.”
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“So why are you dressed like that?”
“I had a plan.”
Arya narrowed her eyes.
“What plan?”
Damiano stood.
“Apparently a poor one.”
He held up the takeout bag.
“Dinner?”
She unlocked the door.
“Come in.”
They ate on the floor because Arya's dining table was covered in campaign mockups.
Halfway through dessert, Damiano became strangely quiet.
Arya noticed.
“What?”
He put down his fork.
“Arya.”
Her pulse changed.
He reached into his jacket.
This time, it wasn't his phone.
A small black box.
Arya stopped breathing.
Damiano did not kneel.
Not yet.
He simply held the box.
“I spent years thinking the most meaningful promise I could make a woman was that nobody would ever touch her because she belonged to me.”
Arya's eyes filled.
“I was wrong.”
He opened the box.
A ring.
Elegant.
Simple.
Not enormous.
Perfect.
“The most meaningful promise I can make is that you will always belong to yourself.”
Arya covered her mouth.
“And if you'll let me, I would like to spend the rest of my life choosing you while you keep choosing yourself.”
He lowered himself onto one knee.
Arya was already crying.
“Marry me.”
She laughed through tears.
“You forgot the question mark.”
“Arya.”
“Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He stood so quickly he nearly knocked over the wine.
Arya laughed.
Then he kissed her.
And for several minutes, neither remembered the ring.
When they finally separated, Arya looked at it.
“You didn't ask my size.”
“Elena stole one of your rings.”
“What?”
“She said you wouldn't notice.”
“I noticed!”
“I'll inform her.”
Arya laughed again.
Damiano slid the ring onto her finger.
Perfect fit.
“Traitors,” she whispered.
“All of us.”
They planned a small wedding.
Then Elena invited forty people.
Marco invited twenty.
The foundation board somehow became involved.
Arya's mother asked about flowers.
Damiano claimed he wanted “whatever Arya wants,” then developed extremely specific opinions about chairs.
“You don't care about chairs,” Arya told him.
“I care about structural integrity.”
“They're chairs.”
“People will sit on them.”
“That is generally the concept.”
They fought.
Actually fought.
Not screaming.
Not fear.
Two adults irritated about wedding logistics.
Halfway through, Arya stopped.
Damiano stopped.
Then both started laughing.
“What?” he asked.
“We're arguing about chairs.”
“Yes.”
“And I'm not scared.”
The humor left his face.
He understood.
Arya touched his cheek.
“That's still sometimes surprising.”
Damiano kissed her palm.
“I hope someday it isn't.”
Three weeks before the wedding, Marco arrived at Damiano's house with an expression Arya had learned to distrust.
“What?”
Damiano asked.
Marco handed him an envelope.
“No return address.”
Inside was a photograph.
The gala.
The exact moment Arya kissed Damiano for the first time.
Taken from above.
On the back were four words.
YOU NEVER FOUND EVERYONE.
Damiano looked at Marco.
“Graves?”
“In federal prison.”
“Marcus?”
“Same.”
Arya felt cold.
Marco continued.
“We traced the photo stock. It's recent printing.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone else kept records.”
Damiano looked at Arya.
The old instinct appeared in his face.
Hide her.
Protect her.
Control every variable.
Then it passed.
He handed her the photograph.
“What do you want to do?”
Arya stared at it.
Then smiled faintly.
“Get married.”
Damiano blinked.
“That's your response?”
“Yes.”
“What about this?”
“We investigate.”
“And the wedding?”
“Continues.”
“Arya.”
She looked at him.
“I have spent enough of my life postponing happiness because dangerous men might do something.”
May you like
She placed the photograph on the table.
“They don't get another day.”
