Metà (COMPLETED)

40. My Peace

A/N
Sorry, I was watching the election. I hope y'all voted!

***

I sat on Marcos bed, leaning against the headboard with my hands clasped on my lap. Everyone had already headed back to the house—the new one, since the last one, as presumed, had been destroyed by Sage.

Cane and I, along with the kids, were the only ones remaining. Well, the kids had gone out with Marco, but they'd be back later. I stared at my toes, wiggling them as confirmation I was still alive.

Last night had left me feeling void. I hadn't been sure if Marco and I would work out. Mostly because I was worried at the lack of knowledge we had on each other. And I'd stressed this to him every chance I got.

But now, after realizing I could lose him, I didn't care if I didn't know what his fucking favorite color was. I wanted him, that's all. And while that's not exactly grounds for healthy relationship, especially with kids involved, I didn't care.

I just wanted him.

He'd made valid points, bringing up the doom of my last due in part by my father and Rossi. But I didn't care anymore. It took until last night for me to realize I didn't care.

We could figure things out.

We really could. I hadn't gotten any words in last night, mostly because I was focused on getting him to stay. But now I was ready. It was my turn to speak.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in," I said, figuring it was probably Cane, but it wasn't. I frowned almost immediately.

"Matteo," I muttered.

"Are you busy," he asked. He had flown out with us and was preparing to head home. I didn't expect him to come by.

"Maybe." He sighed and shut the door, standing there for a moment.

"I wanted to speak to you," he finally said. I didn't say anything, remembering he had asked me prior to everything happening. He took my silence as an 'okay' and sat at the edge of the bed, facing me.

"I spoke to your mother." I raised a brow.

"About?"

"Mostly apologizing." I snorted and shook my head, laughing to myself.

"How'd she take it?"

"She wasn't keen to hearing it. She did get a lot off her chest. I didn't know she could curse so much."

"She picked up a few things in a New York," I told him.

"New York," he asked.

"We moved there. After you... died." The tension in the air switched to one of awkwardness, coming from him.

"I'm so sor—."

"Don't apologize," I interrupted. "Please don't. There are so many more apologies I would rather hear than that one. You're not sorry. You don't regret it. If you did regret it, it wouldn't have taken you until seeing us again to realize that. You should've regretted it maybe a couple months after... or a year. But not this long. At this point you don't regret it."