Chapter 11: Crayons and Silence

The sun spilled lazily over the garden, casting soft golden light through the hedges that framed the eastern courtyard. Siena sat on a wrought-iron bench with a book in her hands, but her eyes weren’t reading. Not really.

Lucia lay on the grass, her sketchpad propped against her knees, a rainbow spread of crayons scattered around her like petals.

For a moment — just a moment — everything was quiet.

Siena let herself breathe.

Lucia hummed to herself, her tiny fingers working diligently over the page. She bit her lip in concentration, then reached for the red crayon and made a bold arc in the center.

Siena’s gaze drifted down to the drawing.

There were three figures.

One with long curly hair. One small and smiling. And one… tall, dark, unmistakably male.

Lucia giggled and added a heart between the three of them.

Siena’s throat tightened.

“Who’s that?” she asked softly, trying to keep her tone light as she pointed to the third figure.

Lucia looked up. “That’s Daddy.”

The word landed like thunder in Siena’s chest.

Before she could respond, a shadow passed over the grass. Adriano stood a few feet away, dressed in black slacks and a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets. His expression unreadable.

Lucia beamed. “Look! I drew us!”

She held up the sketchpad, proud.

Adriano didn’t move at first. Then slowly, he crouched beside her.

His hand hovered over the paper like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch it.

“That’s me?” he asked, voice low.

Lucia nodded confidently. “You have the serious face. So I drew it serious.”

Siena almost smiled. Almost.

Adriano blinked, then glanced at Siena — but she looked away.

“You forgot one thing,” he murmured.

Lucia tilted her head. “What?”

He reached for a purple crayon. “Your bow.”

He gently added a tiny purple bow to the little girl’s hair.

Lucia clapped. “That’s better!”

Adriano looked at her as if he’d never seen anything so pure. Then stood, slower this time.

“I’ll have this framed,” he said.

Siena’s eyes flicked toward him. “You don’t need to do that.”

But he was already walking away, the sketchpad still in his hand.

Lucia picked up another page and started again. “Do you think Daddy likes purple?”

Siena didn’t answer.

Because her heart was still trying to remember how to beat normally.

---

Adriano closed the door to his study with a soft click. He didn’t turn on the light. The sunlight was enough. It slanted across his desk in long shadows, catching the edges of papers, a half-finished glass of scotch from the night before, and now — this.

The drawing.

He laid it carefully on the desk, as if it were made of glass.

Three figures.

A red heart.

A purple bow.

His brow furrowed as he stared at it, unmoving.

What the hell was this feeling in his chest?

Not pain. Not exactly.

Not rage.

Something quieter.

Worse.

She drew me.

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned on the edge of the desk.

That little girl... my daughter.

The word still tasted foreign, but no longer bitter.

His daughter.

The girl he almost lost before even knowing she existed.

Adriano exhaled slowly, trying to push down the ache building inside him. He wasn’t built for softness. His world didn’t allow for it. A man like him didn’t get to want things like drawings taped to office walls or hearts between stick figures.

And yet.

A sound floated through the open window.

Light. Airy.

Laughter.

He moved to the window and leaned against the frame, glancing down at the garden.

There she was — Lucia — chasing butterflies in crooked zigzags, giggling so freely it hurt. Siena ran after her with a smile, hair undone by the breeze, barefoot on the grass.

Adriano’s throat tightened.

He gripped the windowsill harder than he meant to.

They don’t belong here.

Not in this house. Not in this life.

And yet here they were.

A mother and her child.

His child.

And Siena… he couldn’t stop watching her.

She twirled Lucia around and laughed. The sun lit up her skin like warm porcelain. For a second, she forgot to be afraid of him. Forgot the walls between them. She just… existed.

And in that fleeting moment, Adriano wanted to step out of the shadows and walk down to them. Just once.

But he didn’t move.

He stood there, frozen, as if pinned by a force stronger than rage, stronger than loyalty, stronger than fear.

And he whispered into the silence, as if saying it too loud would shatter something precious:

"Dio mio… what are you doing to me, Siena?"

---

He watched them for a while longer — long enough for the light to change, for the shadows on the grass to stretch. Long enough to hear Siena’s laugh again, unguarded, the kind he hadn’t heard in years.

Lucia had flopped onto the grass, her dress fanned around her like a flower. Siena lay beside her, pointing at the clouds, drawing pictures in the sky with her fingers.

Butterflies. Dragons. Crowns.

A family in another life.

A dream he never let himself have.

Adriano stepped away from the window.

He walked quietly down the hallway, down the stairs. Past the long corridor, toward the back terrace. His footsteps made no sound. He could have been a ghost.

When he reached the glass door leading to the garden, he stopped.

They hadn’t seen him yet.

Siena was brushing a leaf from Lucia’s hair.

Lucia squealed, threw her arms around her mother’s neck.

Siena caught her and kissed her cheek.

The girl’s laughter echoed in the afternoon air like bells.

Adriano placed a hand on the doorknob.

But he didn’t turn it.

His fingers hovered. Flexed. Tightened.

And then relaxed again.

He stood there, in the silence of his own making, watching through the glass.

Something deep inside him clawed upward —something wordless and dangerous. Not lust. Not possession.

Longing.

He leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

Just a minute more, he told himself.

Just one more second of pretending I belong.

But he knew.

Men like him didn’t get to have afternoons like this.

They just stood behind the glass.

And watched.

---