Chapter 8 - Thirty-Eight Years
The ambulance took nine minutes.
I counted every second.
At the hospital, doctors took Salvatore away.
I remained behind holding his wedding ring because they had removed it during treatment.
My mother sat beside me.
Sofia arrived.
Then Luca.
Nobody spoke.
Two hours later, a cardiologist entered.
“Mrs. Constantino?”
I stood.
Salvatore had suffered an arrhythmia caused by an undiagnosed electrical problem in his heart.
Not a massive heart attack.
Treatable.
Manageable.
He would need a procedure.
Medication.
Lifestyle changes.
The relief hit so hard my knees weakened.
When I finally entered his room, Salvatore looked furious.
Not scared.
Furious.
“I hate hospitals.”
I started crying.
His face changed instantly.
“Lily.”
“You collapsed.”
“I know.”
“In front of Elena.”
“I know.”
“I thought you died.”
He held out his hand.
I refused it.
“You don't get to comfort me yet. I'm angry.”
His eyebrows rose.
“At me?”
“You skipped two cardiology appointments.”
He looked away.
“Salvatore.”
“I was busy.”
“You own seventeen companies. Find a calendar.”
He sighed.
“Yes, ma'am.”
I took his hand then.
And kissed it.
The procedure succeeded.
Recovery did something no enemy ever managed.
It slowed Salvatore down.
He sold more companies.
Delegated.
Started exercising properly.
Ate food that disappointed him deeply.
“No salt?”
“Doctor's orders.”
“This chicken has no personality.”
“Eat it.”
“Prisoners receive seasoning.”
“You would know.”
He stared at me.
I smiled sweetly.
Marriage.
Three months later, we traveled to Lake Como.
No business.
No security meetings.
Just us.
One evening, we sat beside the water while Elena and Anthony slept inside.
Salvatore looked older than the man I had met at Table Twelve.
Not dramatically.
Just honestly.
Lines around his eyes.
More gray.
A small surgical scar.
I loved every piece.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“You stared first.”
“I was admiring my wife.”
“I was admiring my old husband.”
He groaned.
“You insist on that word.”
“Because it annoys you.”
He pulled me onto his lap.
“I can still throw you into that lake.”
“Cardiologist says no heavy lifting.”
His laugh echoed across the terrace.
Then he became quiet.
“Do you regret it?”
“What?”
“Me.”
I turned.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Today I watched you swimming with the children.”
“And?”
“And I thought about thirty-eight years.”
Our age difference.
“I have stolen some things from people,” he said. “Money. Opportunities. Peace.”
His thumb moved over my wedding ring.
“I don't want to steal years from you.”
My heart hurt.
“You didn't.”
“You could have married someone your age.”
“I could have married Ethan.”
His face hardened.
“Terrible example.”
I laughed.
Then touched his cheek.
“Salvatore, I didn't marry your birth certificate.”
His mouth twitched.
“I married the man who noticed my ankle hurt when nobody else noticed I was drowning.”
His eyes lowered.
“The man who gave me money without purchasing me. The man who asked before kissing me. The man who learned to trust me even when every instinct told him to lock me somewhere safe.”
“That last lesson was difficult.”
“I know.”
I kissed him.
“You didn't steal my years. You filled them.”
He held me for a long time.
When we returned to New York, Ethan contacted me one final time.
Not romantically.
He was getting married.
He wanted to invite us.
I showed Salvatore.
“No.”
I laughed.
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Still jealous?”
“Absolutely.”
“After all these years?”
“Jealousy has excellent cardiovascular endurance.”
We attended.
Salvatore complained for three weeks beforehand.
At the wedding, Ethan introduced us to his bride, Claire.
She was lovely.
More importantly, she looked at Ethan the way I looked at Salvatore.
During the reception, Ethan asked me to dance.
I looked at my husband.
He stared back.
“Go.”
I blinked.
“Really?”
“One dance.”
“You're evolving again.”
“Do not push it.”
Ethan and I danced.
No longing.
No unfinished business.
Just two people who had once imagined one future and somehow found better ones apart.
“You're really happy,” he said.
“I really am.”
“He loves you.”
“I know.”
Ethan smiled.
“I was an idiot.”
“Yes.”
“You could pretend to disagree.”
“Why ruin your personal growth?”
He laughed.
When the song ended, Salvatore appeared.
“My turn.”
Ethan surrendered me.
Salvatore's hand settled around my waist.
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
“You were counting seconds, weren't you?”
“Two hundred fourteen.”
I laughed against his shoulder.
“You're impossible.”
“You married me.”
“I was young.”
His eyes narrowed.
I kissed him before he could answer.
Across the ballroom, photographers captured it.
The next morning, a photograph appeared online.
The caption mocked our age difference.
Again.
But this time, I didn't care.
Because the photograph showed something the headline couldn't understand.
Salvatore wasn't looking at the camera.
He was looking at me.
Like Table Twelve.
Like the chapel.
Like the hospital.
Like Lake Como.
Years changed everything around us.
But never that.
Then, on our tenth wedding anniversary, Salvatore handed me an envelope.
Inside were documents.
I read them twice.
Then looked up.
“What is this?”
“A deed.”
“To Giovanni's?”
He nodded.
The restaurant where we had met.
He had bought the entire building.
“Why?”
“Because they're closing.”
“And?”
“And I thought perhaps we should save Table Twelve.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
Then kissed my seventy-five-year-old husband while our children groaned dramatically.
May you like
But Salvatore had one more surprise.
And this one would change what remained of our lives.
