Page 111 of Lupo

He pulls out a cheap mobile phone—the kind you can buy at any corner store—and a thick envelope.

"The phone is for emergencies only," he says, handing it to me. "It's not traceable, but you still need to be careful. Don't use it unless you absolutely have to. Don't call him just to talk. Only if there's a real emergency—if someone comes here, if you're in danger, if something happens to the child. A phone call, even from a burner phone, might be traced."

I take the phone, turning it over in my hands. It feels like a lifeline and a prison at the same time.

"He can't call me? Even once?"

"It's too dangerous. For you and for him." Ciro's voice is gentle but firm. "His enemies don't know about you yet. But if they find out—if they trace calls, if they follow him here—you and Elena become targets. The less contact there is, the safer you are."

I know he's right. But it still hurts.

"How long?" I ask. "How long until he comes back?"

"Hopefully not longer than a month. He's moving fast, trying to handle the Florence situation quickly so he can return."

A month? It feels like forever.

"And after that? After he deals with them?"

"Then you should be safer, but not completely safe here on the farm. He has enemies and if they find out someone he cares about is unprotected, it will put you at risk." Ciro pauses. "He's doing this for you. You understand that, right? He left everything he built here to go back to something he doesn’t remember. Because it's the only way to protect you and the child."

"I know." My throat is tight. "I wish there was another way."

"There isn't." He hands me the envelope. "This is for you. Money. Enough to cover expenses while he's gone. He can send as much as you need, but you can’t draw attention to yourself right now."

I open the envelope and my breath catches. There are stacks of euros inside. Hundreds of them.

"I can't—this is too much—"

"It's not too much. It's what you need." Ciro's voice becomes stern. "But you have to be smart about it. Don't suddenly start buying expensive things. Don't change your routine at the market. Buy the same food you always buy, just maybe a bitmore of it. Pay your bills. Fix things that need fixing. But don't draw attention."

"People will notice if I suddenly have money."

"So be subtle. Space out your spending. Act like you got a small inheritance from a distant relative, or like you sold something valuable. Make it believable." He meets my eyes. "The boss was very clear about this. You need to be taken care of while he's gone. But you also need to stay safe."

I nod, still staring at the money. It's more than I've seen in years. More than enough to feed Elena, to buy her new clothes when she grows out of her old ones, to fix the roof before winter, to stop worrying about every single expense.

More than enough to survive until he comes back.

If he comes back.

"He will," Ciro says, like he's reading my mind. "Come back. I know it doesn't feel like it right now. I know the silence is hard. But he's doing everything he can to make this fast. To get back to you."

"Does he—" I stop, not sure I want to know the answer. "Does he talk about us? About Elena and me?"

Ciro's expression softens. "Yes. Constantly. It's all he talks about, actually. Making sure you're safe, making sure you have what you need, getting back here as fast as possible." He pauses. "In all the years I've known him, I've never seen him like this. He was always focused on the organization, on power, on control. But now? Now all he cares about is two people in a farmhouse. You changed him."

"Or maybe the head injury changed him."

"Maybe. Or maybe you just showed him what matters." Ciro puts his cap back on. "I should go. I can't stay long without someone potentially noticing."

"Will you come back? To check on us?"

"Only if necessary. But it's safer if I don't. Less contact means less risk." He moves toward the door, then stops. "He wanted me to tell you something. He made me memorize it because he couldn't write it down."

"What?"

Ciro looks uncomfortable, like he's not used to delivering personal messages. "Tell her I think about them every morning when I wake up and every night before I sleep. Tell her Elena's laugh is the only thing keeping me sane. Tell her—'" He pauses, struggling with the words. "Tell her I'm coming back. No matter what it takes."