Chapter 9 - THE SCARS WE CHOOSE
Two years later.
The Tuscan sun was warm on my skin, smelling of crushed basil and baked earth.
I stood on the stone terrace of our villa, looking out over the rolling vineyards. I was wearing a sleeveless white linen dress.
My arms were bare.
The burn scars on my wrist were still there, silvery and raised, but I no longer felt the urge to pull my sleeves down. They were no longer a mark of a clumsy maid. They were the badge of a woman who had saved her family.
“Mommy!”
I turned as Sophie, now eight years old, came running up the stone steps, carrying a basket of fresh figs. She had grown taller, her dark curls wild and free.
She didn't call me Elise anymore. She hadn't for a year.
“Look what we found!” Sophie beamed, holding up the basket.
Behind her walked Gabriel. He was wearing a simple linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. The dark, heavy shadows that had haunted his eyes in the city were entirely gone. He looked younger, lighter, free.
He walked up to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed my temple.
“The harvest is going to be good this year,” he murmured against my hair.
“Because you actually let the farmers do their jobs instead of trying to micromanage the irrigation,” I teased, turning to kiss him properly.
When we left the city, Gabriel had kept his word. He surrendered his territory to the Commission in exchange for a clean break. He liquidated his legitimate assets and bought this vineyard in Italy.
Camille was in federal prison, having taken a plea deal to testify against Vincent, who was serving three consecutive life sentences. Marco had disappeared into the Commission’s own brutal justice system.
None of it mattered to us anymore.
We sat down at the rustic wooden table on the terrace for lunch. There were no crystal chandeliers. There were no armed guards at the doors. There were no tense, terrifying dinners.
Just bread, cheese, figs, and the three of us.
Sophie reached across the table to grab a slice of bread. As she did, her sleeve pulled back, revealing a tiny, faded scrape on her elbow from climbing a tree the day before.
She looked at her elbow, then looked at my wrist.
“Anna was right,” Sophie smiled, biting into her bread.
“About what, sweetie?” I asked.
“Scars mean your body fixed something.”
Gabriel reached out and took my scarred hand, lacing his fingers through mine. He looked at me with a love so deep and profound it still took my breath away.
“She’s right,” Gabriel said softly, kissing the back of my hand. “They fixed everything.”
May you like
I smiled, squeezing his hand tight, feeling the warm Tuscan breeze wash over us.
I wasn't a maid anymore. I was a mother, a wife, and the heart of a home that was finally, truly safe.
