If Still

Alessia 🌹

Eight Years Ago — Milan

I didn't know a life could change in a single breath.

That one smile could become the last thing you ever memorize.

Milan at night feels like it's exhaling.

Soft gold streetlights stretch into liquid ribbons across the tinted windows of our SUV, the Duomo's spires fading behind us like lace against the dark. The city hums — low engines, distant laughter spilling from trattorias, the faint scent of espresso and rain-warmed stone drifting in through the barely cracked window.

Inside the car, it smells like Mamma's perfume.

Orange blossom. Warm vanilla. Safety.

She sits beside me, legs crossed elegantly, a leather-bound foundation binder open on her lap. She flips through pages with swift, precise movements — charity proposals, grant approvals, handwritten notes in the margins. Even at nearly nine at night, she looks incandescent. Cream silk blouse. Pearl earrings. The quiet authority of a woman who walks into a room and changes its temperature.

At seventeen, I'm about to leave for London.

University. Independence. A life beyond the gates of Tenuta Moretti.

I clutch my own notebook, pretending to review orientation details, but really I'm watching her.

Studying her.

Memorizing her.

"Are you excited, mia cara?" she asks without looking up, her voice melodic, warm. Italian wraps around words differently — softer edges, deeper roots.

"Yes, Mamma." I tap my pen against the page, nerves fluttering under my ribs. "I feel grown up. But... the world is enormous."

She closes the binder slowly, turning to me fully now. Her amber-brown eyes — the same shade as mine — search my face like she's cataloging it for later.

"The world is large," she agrees. "But so are you."

My throat tightens.

Every second beside her feels like stepping closer to the woman I want to become. Elegant, purposeful. Powerful without cruelty.

She is the first woman who ever made me believe there was room for someone like me — someone soft and sharp at the same time.

Her phone buzzes.

She ignores it.

I don't.

"Mamma?" I nudge her gently. "You should check. What if it's Papà?"

A small smirk curves her lips. "If it is your Papà, he will ask what time we are home and remind the driver to take the safer route. As if we do not already have two security cars behind us."

I grin. "He's always too protective."

"Oh, he is," she says lightly. "But you know, we must live our lives."

The phone buzzes again.

She exhales dramatically, then glances at the screen.

Her entire face transforms.

The smirk melts into something softer. Intimate. Glowing.

"Fine," she murmurs. "Two seconds."

She answers.

"Ciao, mi amore," she says, and her voice lowers in a way that feels sacred. "Yes, we are on our way back. Late dinner? Just us?" She laughs softly. "Perfetto."

I look away, pretending not to witness something holy.

Twenty-eight years.

An accidental pregnancy at twenty-two. A rushed wedding. An empire built from soil and stubbornness.

And still they talk like this.

Like teenagers who can't wait to see each other.

Watching them has always carved something quiet into my chest. A longing I never say out loud.

She ends the call, cheeks flushed.

"You two are unreal," I say.

"Old people in love," she teases.

"You are not old."

"Oh?" She arches a brow. "Tell your Papà that."

We laugh.

It's easy with her. Effortless.

We talk about London again — about lectures, foundations I want to build, vineyards I want to modernize one day. Ideas that feel too big to say in front of anyone else.

She listens like they matter.

Like I matter.

I have an older brother — Cosimo. Nine years older. Newly married to his childhood sweetheart, Vittoria. Their wedding still lingers in my memory like champagne bubbles — polished, strategic, perfect.

Between my parents' enduring love and my brother marrying his soulmate, I grew up believing that kind of devotion was inevitable.

Earned.

Destined.

Mamma reaches for my hand.

"I am proud of you breath to breath," she says.

My breath actually falters. "Of me?"

"Mia cara..." She squeezes my fingers. "You grew into such an extraordinary young woman. You are full of dreams. You want to conquer the world."

A shy laugh slips from me. "That's dramatic."

"It is accurate," she counters. "If Cosimo is like your Papà — disciplined, commanding — you are like me."

I tilt my head. "That is... unfortunately true."

Her smile turns knowing.

"You do not yet understand your power. You allow others to shine. But you shine beside them." She pauses, studying me in a way that feels almost prophetic. "And aside from a thriving career, one day someone will be very fortunate to call you his wife."

My stomach flips.

Not excitement.

Something heavier.

"Mamma—"

"Oh, hush." She brushes imaginary lint from my sleeve. "You are brilliant. Compassionate. You actually care about people. That is rarer than diamonds."

Her phone buzzes again.

Papà.

She glances at the screen, smiling with a tenderness so complete it almost hurts to witness.

I soak in it.

This marriage.

This family.

This warmth wrapped around me like silk.

She leans over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

A small gesture.

An ordinary one.

The kind you don't realize will become sacred.

Outside, Milan blurs — golden, fluid, alive.

For one suspended heartbeat, nothing has ever felt safer.

Then—

A flash.

Blinding white.

The sound comes next.

Not a bang.

A violent tear — metal screaming as if the earth itself has split open.

The SUV jerks sideways.

Glass detonates inward like a thousand diamonds exploding.

The world flips.

My ears ring so violently I can't hear my own scream.

"Giù! Down!" one of the bodyguards shouts from the front.

The vehicle slams back onto the pavement. My shoulder crashes into the door. Heat rips across my skin.

Mamma's hand clamps around mine.

Not fear.

Instinct.

Protecting me.

Another blast hits the rear of the car. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline floods the cabin. Smoke. Gunpowder. Blood.

Gunfire erupts.

Rapid. Relentless.

The windshield splinters. One of the bodyguards jerks forward, then slumps — crimson blooming across his collar.

"Mamma—!" I try to pull her down with me.

Her eyes meet mine.

Wide.

Fierce.

"Alessia—"

Her body jerks.

Once.

Violently.

The sound that leaves her isn't even a scream.

It's a breath.

Then her fingers slip from mine.

"No."

The word claws out of my throat.

"No, no, no—"

Another body collapses beside us. Blood sprays warm against my cheek. My vision blurs, swimming in smoke and flashing lights.

I reach for her.

My hand finds silk soaked in red.

"Mamma!" I scream, but my voice sounds distant — like I'm underwater.

Her head tilts slightly toward me.

Her eyes are still open.

Still stunned.

Still disbelieving.

As if even she cannot comprehend that this is how it ends.

Sirens wail in the distance.

My shoulder burns. My ears won't stop ringing. My heartbeat thrashes against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I press my hand against her chest.

Nothing.

The warmth drains beneath my palm.

The city that had been glowing gold moments ago now feels black and merciless.

The last thing I see before everything fades is her face illuminated by flashing blue lights — beautiful, powerful, gone.

And I realize—

In a single breath, I have become someone else.

I didn't know it then.

But that night did not just take my mother.

It took the softness of my father.

It hardened my brother into something unbreakable.

It turned love into legacy.

And it taught me that safety is an illusion carefully curated by powerful men.

Eight years later, I still feel her hand slipping from mine.

And I still wake up reaching for it.