The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the Marchetti estate was already awake with the subtle hum of activity—house staff moving quietly, espresso machines hissing in the kitchen, the faint rustle of wind through the cypress trees.
Alessandro stood at the front steps, dressed in black slacks and a dark coat, his suitcase beside him. His mother stood a few feet away, her robe belted tightly around her as if she could hold back her emotion through fabric alone. His father, Lorenzo, was just behind her, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving his son's face.
"So… you're really going," his mother whispered.
"I told you I wasn't staying long," Alessandro replied gently.
"Figlio mio," she said, her voice tightening, "you shouldn't have had to find out that way."
"I shouldn't have had to find out at all," he said. "But I did."
Lorenzo stepped forward then, clasping a hand on his son's shoulder. "You did what I never had the courage to. I'm proud of you for that."
Alessandro looked at his father, searching his face for something he'd rarely seen there before—respect. And now it was clear. Present.
"I have people waiting for me in New York," Alessandro said, glancing toward the waiting car. "People I never should've been separated from."
Liliana gave a tearful nod. "Kiss that boy for me when you see him. And Bell…"
"I'll figure it out," he said. "I don't know how. But I'll try."
He stepped forward to hug her, then shook his father's hand with a firm grip.
He didn't say goodbye to Giuliano.
Didn't even glance toward the north wing where his grandfather's study sat like a throne room.
There was no need.
He had said all that needed to be said.
As the car pulled away down the long driveway, Alessandro didn't look back once.
He kept his eyes forward—on New York. On Enzo. On Bell.
On the life he was ready to reclaim.
...
INT. US— NEW YORK CITY
The plane touched down just after 11 PM. The city lights sprawled beneath the aircraft like veins of gold threading through the dark, alive even at this hour. New York never slept—and for once, Alessandro was thankful for that.
By the time he was walking through JFK's terminal, his coat slung over one arm and his phone buzzing with work updates, the exhaustion of the trip began to settle into his shoulders. But it wasn't the kind of exhaustion that begged for sleep—it was the kind that came from surviving something and stepping out on the other side of it.
The airport was quieter than usual, the energy slower, less frantic. He moved through it briskly, his driver waiting near the exit.
As soon as the door to the car closed behind him, he let out a long breath. The kind of breath he hadn't been able to release in years.
The driver asked, "Straight to the penthouse, Mr. Marchetti?"
Alessandro leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed. "Yeah."
The city passed by in a blur outside the tinted windows, but he didn't look. He didn't need to. The air was different here. Lighter, sharper. Real.
When the car pulled up to the entrance of his building, he stepped out, tugging his coat tighter. The night air bit against his skin, but he welcomed it. He took one long look at the skyline. This place. This city. The life he'd left behind.
He was home.
And this time… he had no intention of running.
….
The Next Morning
Bell had just set a warm plate of waffles in front of Enzo when her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen, her breath catching slightly.
Alessandro.
She hadn't expected to hear from him this soon—not after what the last few days must've been like. Still, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and stepped into the hallway, answering quickly.
"Hello?"
His voice was steady, a little lower than usual—tired, maybe. "Hey. I just landed last night."
She blinked. "You're back in New York?"
"Yeah. Got in pretty late."
She didn't say anything at first, just leaned back against the wall and absorbed the weight of his return. For a moment, she could picture him again—broad-shouldered, hands in his coat pockets, standing somewhere under the early morning sky of this city.
"How'd it go?" she asked softly.
There was a pause, and then a bitter laugh. "Like you'd expect. But I said what I needed to say. And I'm done with him. For good."
Bell's expression softened. "That couldn't have been easy."
"It wasn't," he admitted. "But it was necessary." A quiet moment passed, and then he added, more gently, "I don't want to waste time, Bell. Not anymore. I'd like to see Enzo again… if he's up for it."
She looked back toward the kitchen where Enzo was humming to himself, tapping his fork against the edge of his plate.
"I'll talk to him," she said, nodding slowly. "We'll see what day works."
"Thank you," Alessandro said quietly. "Really."
And just before she could hang up, he said her name again, softer this time. "Bell… it's good to be back."
She didn't respond immediately, but a quiet breath left her. Then—"Yeah. It is."