Chapter 9 - Four Months Without CarloLong-distance love sounded romantic until you were actually living it.
It involved time zones.
Bad Wi-Fi.
Missed calls.
Exhaustion.
Jealousy you did not want to admit.
And hotel rooms that looked increasingly identical.
Paris was beautiful.
Barcelona was exhausting.
Vienna was efficient enough to make me question every organizational decision I had ever made.
Amsterdam rained constantly.
Carlo never complained.
That almost made it worse.
Every morning, there was a message.
Eat breakfast.
I replied:
Stop parenting me.
His answer:
Coffee is not breakfast.
Some things never changed.
He visited once.
Barcelona.
Forty-eight hours.
He arrived carrying one small bag.
No entourage.
We spent the first evening walking.
Nobody recognized him.
For Carlo, anonymity was a luxury.
We ate tapas at a crowded restaurant.
He waited in line.
Actually waited.
Twenty minutes.
I photographed him.
“Delete that.”
“Never.”
“I have a reputation.”
“You are waiting for patatas bravas.”
“Exactly.”
That night, lying beside him in the hotel, I asked:
“Do you miss the power?”
He did not answer immediately.
“Sometimes.”
I appreciated the honesty.
“What part?”
“Things happened when I wanted them to happen.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It was.”
“And now?”
“Now people tell me no.”
“Tragic.”
He kissed my shoulder.
“I learned from an expert.”
Then his voice became serious.
“I do not miss who I had to be to keep it.”
I turned toward him.
That answer was enough.
When he returned to Naples, I expected loneliness.
Instead, trouble arrived.
Not mafia trouble.
Adult trouble.
Business trouble.
My company’s financial manager called.
One of our largest clients had filed for bankruptcy.
They owed us €86,000.
Enough to threaten payroll.
I panicked.
For approximately fifteen minutes, I considered calling Carlo.
He could solve it.
Not illegally.
Probably.
One phone call.
A loan.
An investment.
Anything.
I dialed.
Then stopped.
I called Lucia instead.
We worked through the night.
Reduced expenses.
Renegotiated schedules.
Used reserves.
I took no salary for two months.
We survived.
When Carlo found out later, he was furious.
“You did not tell me.”
“I handled it.”
“You could have told me without asking for money.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Because I was afraid.
Not of Carlo.
Of dependence.
I finally admitted it.
“I needed to know I could survive without you.”
The anger left his face.
“Adriana.”
“I know it is irrational.”
“No.”
He sat beside me.
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“I needed to learn the same thing.”
I looked at him.
“Power made me believe needing people was weakness,” he said. “Then losing everything taught me the opposite.”
His hand covered mine.
“You can need me without belonging to me.”
That sentence broke something open inside me.
For so long, I had believed independence meant carrying everything alone.
Maybe Carlo and I had opposite versions of the same wound.
He controlled.
I refused help.
Both came from fear.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“But you would have offered money.”
“Immediately.”
“I would have said no.”
“I know.”
“You would have been annoying.”
“Extremely.”
I smiled.
Then kissed him through the phone screen.
The four months ended.
I returned to Naples on a rainy Sunday.
Carlo waited at arrivals.
No flowers.
Instead, he held a cardboard sign.
STUBBORN GIRL
I laughed so loudly people turned.
“You are ridiculous.”
He took my suitcase.
“You love me.”
“Yes.”
Outside, I stopped.
A black Maserati waited at the curb.
I stared at it.
“No.”
Carlo looked innocent.
“What?”
“You brought the Maserati.”
“It was raining.”
“You did this deliberately.”
“Possibly.”
I pointed toward the driver’s seat.
“I’m driving.”
His face became horrified.
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I take a taxi.”
Five minutes later, I was driving Carlo’s Maserati.
He gripped the door handle.
“You are too close to that scooter.”
“We have three meters.”
“Two.”
“Relax.”
“This car is handcrafted.”
“So am I.”
“That comparison makes no sense.”
“It does emotionally.”
We reached the Centro Storico.
Then I saw it.
The parking space.
Our parking space.
Empty.
I slowed.
Carlo looked at me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Adriana.”
I parked.
Perfectly.
Then turned toward him.
“Full circle.”
Carlo stared through the windshield.
“Do you realize this entire relationship exists because you stole my parking space?”
“My parking space.”
“You remain objectively wrong.”
“You remain annoyingly handsome.”
His expression softened.
“Come with me.”
We walked around the corner.
Toward my old studio.
Except the building looked different.
Renovated.
Ground floor transformed into a bright commercial space.
“What is this?”
“Your landlord was selling.”
My heart sank.
“Carlo.”
“I did not buy it.”
I relaxed.
“My company did.”
I glared.
He laughed.
“Before you kill me, listen.”
“I am listening aggressively.”
“The ground floor is available.”
“For?”
“Your company.”
“No free rent.”
“Market rate.”
“No secret discount.”
“Market rate.”
“No ownership tricks.”
“You can have your attorney review everything.”
I stared through the windows.
It was beautiful.
Large.
Bright.
Exactly what we needed.
“You remembered this building.”
“You built your dream upstairs.”
His voice softened.
“I thought you might like to build the next part downstairs.”
Tears appeared unexpectedly.
“Damn you.”
“That sounds promising.”
I hugged him.
Hard.
He kissed my hair.
Then whispered:
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
For once, everything seemed right.
Until Carlo’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
Answered.
Silence.
Then his face changed.
“Who is this?”
I watched him.
His expression went pale.
Carlo never went pale.
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
May you like
He looked at me.
“Enzo escaped.”
