Chapter 17 - The Bridge Across the Years
That Friday evening, the autumn air was brisk and clear, carrying the rich, comforting aromas of roasted garlic, fresh basil, and simmering tomato sauce down the narrow, historic cobblestone streets of Little Italy.
We walked side-by-side down High Street, completely unattended by bodyguards or security details, blending seamlessly into the evening crowd of couples and families enjoying the weekend air.
We stopped outside a small, unassuming family-run trattoria with warm amber lights glowing through its frosted front windows—the exact place where Vincent had first promised me a future away from the frantic, crushing misery of Harbor House.
When we stepped inside, the elderly owner, a white-haired man named Matteo who had known the Cross family for decades, looked up from behind the wooden counter. His weathered face broke into a broad, welcoming grin as he spotted us.
“Mr. Cross! And Signora Fay!” Matteo greeted warmly, hurrying out from behind the counter. “It is an honor to have you back in our humble dining room tonight. I have your favorite table prepared in the rear corner.”
“Thank you, Matteo,” Vincent said, shaking the old man’s hand with genuine warmth. “Just keep the red wine flowing and let us enjoy the evening in peace.”
As Matteo guided us to the intimate corner booth tucked beneath vintage black-and-white photographs of old New York, I couldn't help but smile as I slid onto the plush red leather bench.
Vincent sat across from me, picking up the heavy paper menu, though his eyes barely glanced at the words before he looked back up across the candlelit table to meet my gaze.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Vincent murmured softly, resting his elbows on the checkered tablecloth.
I traced the rim of my water glass, looking around the cozy, bustling restaurant. “I was just thinking about how far we’ve come,” I said quietly. “Six years ago, I was terrified of dropping a wine glass or miscalculating a dinner bill. Today, we own the very streets we used to walk with our heads down.”
Vincent reached across the table, his warm, strong fingers closing over mine. The candlelight caught the quiet strength in his eyes—the same eyes that had stared down federal investigators, syndicate bosses, and assassins without blinking, yet softened instantly whenever they rested on me.
“You didn't conquer those streets because of me, Fay,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register of profound, unwavering sincerity. “You conquered them because you refused to let the world dictate your worth. You walked into my life as a survivor, and you stayed as my equal.”
I squeezed his hand tightly, feeling the absolute, unbreakable truth of his words vibrating in my chest.
May you like
“And I wouldn't trade a single second of it,” I answered, a bright, radiant smile breaking across my face.
When Matteo returned with a bottle of aged Barolo and two steaming plates of homemade pasta, we didn't talk about business, logistics, or syndicates. We talked about the future—about the home we were building by the river, the quiet mornings ahead, and the endless, beautiful horizon stretching out before us.
