Later that evening, after the city had settled into its dim hum and Enzo was fast asleep in his room, Bell's phone lit up.
Alessandro Marchetti
8:41 PM
These are the times I'm free this week — and next, just in case.
Monday: 5–7PM
Wednesday: 4–6PM
Friday: 6PM onward
Saturday: 11AM–3PM
Let me know what works best for you both.
She stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
He'd meant what he said. She could feel it in the way he'd looked at the drawing — like it broke him and fixed something at the same time.
Still, this was new territory.
Bell sat down at the edge of her bed, fingers moving slowly as she typed:
Bell Casanova
8:44 PM
He has soccer practice Monday and Wednesday.
Saturday works. Late morning.
A moment passed.
Alessandro Marchetti
8:45 PM
Saturday it is. Thank you.
Simple. Direct.
And yet her heart thudded against her ribs like it hadn't caught up with everything yet.
She looked toward Enzo's room — the faint sound of his fan spinning behind the door, his nightlight casting soft shadows.
Saturday.
The day her son would meet his father.
And for the first time in a long time, Bell didn't know whether to cry… or breathe easier.
...
Bell didn't sleep much that night.
She kept glancing at her phone, rereading the message — Saturday it is. Thank you.
And she kept glancing toward Enzo's room, listening to the sound of his sleep, the quiet rise and fall of breath from the hallway.
So, by that Saturday morning, she'd made her decision.
She texted Alessandro after breakfast, while Enzo was still in pajamas, building a tower of magnets in the living room.
Bell Casanova
9:07 AM
We'll be at my parents' place.
I figured it would be better. You know the house. So does he.
She didn't explain further.
She didn't say I'm not ready to let you into our home yet or This is still hard for me.
She didn't have to.
A few minutes later, the reply came.
Alessandro Marchetti
9:13 AM
That's perfect.
I'll see you both soon.
She put her phone down and sat on the edge of the couch, watching Enzo hum quietly to himself as he stacked another piece onto his tower.
This house — her childhood home — had seen so much. Her mother's kitchen, her father's garden, that same old oak tree out back.
It had been the backdrop to her youth.
And now, it would be the place where her son met his father for the first time.
Familiar ground.
Safe ground.
Not everything had to be perfect. But this? This felt right.
INT. CASANOVA ESTATE
Late morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Casanova home, warming the ivory walls and catching the edge of the lace curtains. The house smelled faintly of fresh coffee and rosemary from the garden. It was peaceful — deceptively so.
Bell stood in the living room, smoothing the front of her skirt for what had to be the fifth time.
She hadn't meant to dress up. Not really.
But when she'd finished helping Enzo into a clean pair of dark jeans and a soft collared shirt — one that brought out the hazel in his eyes — she'd turned to her own closet and reached for a soft cream blouse, simple gold earrings, and a pair of heeled sandals that gave her just enough height to feel steady.
It wasn't about Alessandro.
It was about feeling composed. In control. Unshakeable — even if her heart was thudding somewhere in her throat.
Enzo sat at the edge of the couch, hands in his lap, sneakers tapping the floor.
"He's really coming?" he asked, glancing up at her.
Bell gave a small smile and nodded. "Yeah, baby. He is."
He looked nervous — not scared, just unsure. And Bell knelt in front of him, gently fixing a strand of hair that had fallen out of place.
"You don't have to say anything you don't want to," she said softly. "You don't have to hug him or talk to him like he's someone you know. Just be you. That's all I want."
Enzo nodded slowly, glancing toward the window.
"Do you think he'll like me?"
Bell's breath caught for half a second.
She touched his cheek. "He's going to love you."
And just as she stood up again, straightening her blouse one last time, the doorbell rang.
She and Enzo both froze.
From the kitchen, her mother looked up quietly but said nothing.
Bell took one more breath, then walked to the door.
Her hand paused on the knob — one second, two — and then she opened it.
There he stood.
Alessandro, dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves cuffed, clean lines, that same watch on his wrist. His stubble had been trimmed, his expression unreadable — but his eyes… they flicked past her, straight to the small figure behind her shoulder.
And he forgot how to breathe.