I stared at him.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
“I should have.”
The honesty disarmed me more than any excuse could have.
He looked older in the morning light. Not weak. Just worn down, like a man who had spent years losing arguments with memory.
“I searched,” he said. “Private investigators. Old friends. Hospitals. Shelters. Every place I could think of. Then accounts started closing before my people arrived. Leads disappeared. Someone was helping you stay hidden.”
“I was helping myself.”
“At first, yes.” He paused. “Later, someone else was making sure I looked in the wrong places.”
A chill moved through me.
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
A car passed behind him, tires hissing against damp pavement.
I wanted to reject all of it. It would have been easier to keep the story I understood: betrayal, escape, survival. Pain has a strange comfort when it is familiar.
But the photograph.
The medical report.
The way he had looked that night.
The way Vanessa had cried too quickly.
“I was pregnant,” I said.
His face changed.
Not with surprise. He already knew that much from seeing the twins. But hearing it from me seemed to hollow him out.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered.
“I found out after I left.”
“Twins?”
I nodded.
His eyes shone, but he blinked it back.
“What are their names?”
I almost refused.
Then I thought of Lena calling him big sad man, of Ash touching the table where his hand had rested.
“Lena and Asher.”
“Asher,” he repeated softly. “Ash.”
“He chooses who gets to call him that.”
“I understand.”
The humility in his voice hurt.
I had expected Luca Moretti to arrive with lawyers, demands, expensive fury.
Instead, he stood in an alley behind a bakery asking permission to know the names of his children.
“I don’t trust you,” I said.
“You shouldn’t.”
That answer shook me.
He continued, “Not yet. Not because I say I was wronged. Not because I have papers. Trust is not something I get to reclaim by appearing at your door.”
I looked away.
The sunrise had begun staining the clouds peach and gold. Somewhere below, Mrs. Pike was turning on ovens. The world continued making bread while mine rearranged itself.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“To know them.” His voice was quiet. “Only in whatever way you decide is safe. I will not take them from you. I will not drag you back to Chicago. I will not force myself into their lives faster than they can understand.”
“And me?”
He looked at me then.