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BEFORE

LUCIA

T he thing about starting over is that it always sounds easier than it feels. At 3:00 a.m., I was driving through unlit Italian country roads. The headlights of my car sliced through the darkness, the air warm even in the early hours of the morning. My life was packed into the car, a haphazard mess of suitcases and boxes, and I was heading back to the rolling hills of my childhood, where rows of olive trees and grapevines stretched endlessly. Back to the family vineyard, where life was always slow and simple, the exact opposite of the city, and just what I needed.

It was 6:00 a.m. when I turned off the main road at a bend I could have navigated with my eyes closed, greeted by the ancient tree towering behind stone pillars and the ornate monument proudly spelling out DeLuca Family Vineyards. The shrubs lining the long drive to my parents’ house were in full bloom, their sweet scent mingling with the crisp morning air as dawn began to break. Instead of continuing to the large stone building used for tastings and events, I veered toward the iron gates leading to the family home. Parking a little way down the lane, I stepped out, needing the quiet walk through the familiar landscape to gather myself.

Dust swirled in the distance as I got closer to the house. I imagined my older brother, Matteo, tearing around the backyard in circles in his old go-kart. The same one he’d had when he was twelve. All limbs and hunched shoulders, but he would laugh like a kid, kicking up clouds of dirt. For the first time in weeks, I smiled. A real, unguarded smile at the memory I had seen so many times over the years when he was home.

The house was just as I remembered—solid, comforting, and alive. On the front porch, my parents sat on the swinging bench, their heads bent close together over steaming cups of coffee. The sun was beginning its slow climb, casting everything in soft gold. I could already imagine the taste of my mom’s cappuccino, the one she made just right every time. But I knew this wasn’t going to be a regular morning. My arrival wasn’t routine. My car, stuffed with everything I owned, told that story loud and clear.

As I rounded the big pine trees, the chatter on the porch grew louder, and it was Mom who spotted me first. Her eyes lit up, and she sprang to her feet, calling out with delight.

“Lucia! Amore !”

I saw Matteo’s head pop out of the kitchen window, his dark brows lifting in surprise before he disappeared and reappeared outside, joining Mom and Dad on the porch.

But the warmth of the moment shifted in an instant. Matteo’s smile vanished when he saw me up close. His face hardened, his jaw locking as his eyes swept over me. He was already moving, sprinting toward me before I could take another step.

“Lucia…” His voice cracked as his hands landed gently on my shoulders, like he was afraid I’d break under his grip. His eyes searched mine, and I knew the red eyes and the tears forming were the first signs he saw. I didn’t cry. Even as a kid, when I fell out of the old olive tree by the lake and broke my arm, I did not shed a single tear. Matteo and I were inseparable as kids—where he went, I went. We had that twin telepathy thing, even though we were ten months apart. I wanted to tell him not to worry, that I was okay. But I wasn’t. I’d moved mountains to leave, and standing here, under the weight of my family’s concern, I felt impossibly small.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Matteo growled, his voice shaking with anger. Mom was by my side in an instant, coffee cup discarded, her hands fluttering over me like she could fix it all with a touch.

“My sweet girl, what has happened?” she asked, her voice breaking.

My dad stayed rooted to the deck, his rage palpable, but there were tears in his eyes too. That undid me completely. He was never emotional, always the strong, steady presence. Seeing him like that, so broken for me, made me feel like my knees might buckle. A strangled sob bubbled up to the surface and made my sight blur.

Matteo steadied me, sinking us both onto the porch steps. He held me tight, his arms a fortress.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, over and over, like he could will it into truth. Mom knelt beside us, wrapping us both in her arms, and then I felt Dad’s hand, solid and grounding on my shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he said firmly.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I believed him. Because here, in this house, with them, I was okay. Or at least, I would be.

It was my mother who switched into fixer mode. As she did. My mother was quite the force. She shooed away the boys to bring my car up and unload my entire life back into my childhood bedroom. My brother kept glancing over at me while bringing my things in. I could see the questions swirling there. The million questions. His phone rang, and he walked outside to take it after giving me a small smile. My dad busied himself with getting my things sorted while Mom shuffled me upstairs into her bedroom. I sat on her bed, hugging a pillow to my chest with her next to me, brushing my hair down with her hand.

“ Stronzo ,” she muttered under her breath, the Italian word for asshole cutting through the silence. “I never liked him.”

It was the first thing my mother had said in what felt like hours, her sigh carrying the weight of her anger and worry. We sat there quietly, the tension wrapping around us like a heavy blanket. Finally, I exhaled, knowing I couldn’t avoid explaining any longer.

I hadn’t looked at myself closely, but I didn’t need to. The swollen ache of my eye was enough to tell me how bad it looked—surely an unpleasant mix of purple and blue by now.

“You loved him, Mom, so did I,” I replied, feeling the weight of my words. We had all loved him. He and Matteo even got along, and Matteo hated everyone I had ever dated. But not Josh. Josh swept into my life like a perfect storm, sudden and all-consuming. He had been the perfect gentleman; he showed up, was interested in my work, and supported me in that. He was probably the most supportive and loving man I had ever dated. We had been together for three years. He proposed on the park bench we had sat on the first time we met. It had been such an easy yes. And it had been a blissful few months of being engaged. And I loved him. Truly, deep in my soul, I loved him. But the perfectness began to rot away. The controlling behavior, questioning me when I worked late, accusing me of cheating, of not loving him, were the cornerstones of so many fights. Then months had passed, I had hardly spoken to my family or friends, plans were canceled for some reason or the next by him. Then, what felt like suddenly, I was alone, with only Josh.

This rage poisoned and rotted away the man I loved, the sweet and kind man I thought I knew. The worst was when I realized no one would suspect it when he had convinced everyone that he loved me so profoundly it would be unfathomable that he would hurt me. I realized I had no one to talk to or confide in because we had gradually stopped seeing my friends. He never wanted to spend time with them, and if I left to hang out with them, it would make him angry—effectively cutting me off from the outside world.

It wasn’t until last night that I left. He came home late and reeked of the bar. Had some choice words that turned to screams, but it was the first time he had hurt me.

After he left, I sat there, tears streaming down my face, lost in the weight of everything that had just happened. Hours blurred together before a stray thought pushed its way into my mind: When was my last period? The realization hit me like a jolt, and panic took over.

I grabbed my keys and headed to the store down the street, barely remembering the walk there. I bought a test and went straight to the drugstore restroom, hands shaking as I waited for the result. Then, there it was—one single word on the digital screen.

Pregnant.

That one word changed everything.

Something broke inside me after that. It wasn’t fear, it was resolve. I walked home with fire in my veins and determination driving every step. Once inside, I grabbed the biggest suitcase I owned and as many boxes as I could carry, making two trips between the apartment and my car. I had no idea how long Josh would be gone, but the thought of him coming back, finding me, and pulling me back into that nightmare kept me moving faster. It wasn’t just me now—I had another life depending on me. A tiny one that deserved so much better. I refused to bring a child into his world. I had always dreamed of being a mother, albeit not like this, but that one word on the test is what shook me to my core. I left my engagement ring on the counter without a second thought and drove ten hours straight to my parents’ house, the weight of my decision sinking in with every mile.

“I’m pregnant, Mom,” I finally said. She looked over to me, her lips quivering.

“It will be just fine, sweet girl. It will be just fine.” She hugged me tight, and I knew it in my soul. It would be just fine.