I never deserved Giovanni.
Not once.
Not when he carried me home after my father's funeral and sat with me until sunrise without saying a single word.
Not when he sold his own watch to pay the interest I owed on the vineyard loan.
Not when he found me unconscious in the olive grove and carried me two miles on his back rather than call for help and shame me in front of the village.
He was the only person who never once looked at me like I was broken.
And I killed him for it.
I told myself he had betrayed me.
I found the deed with his name. I saw the date — three days after I begged him, weeping, to help me save the land.
I heard someone say "Giovanni took care of everything" and my mind twisted it into mockery.
I replayed every kindness he ever showed me and turned each one into a hidden insult, a secret humiliation.
I needed him to be a traitor.
Because if he wasn't… then the fault was only mine.
All of it.
Always.
So I planned the perfect cruelty.
I would give him hope, then take it away forever.
I would let him believe — right until the last moment — that I still loved him.
Carnival night.
The streets smelled of oranges, smoke, and coming rain.
He was laughing with strangers near the fountain when I found him.
His eyes brightened the moment he saw me — the way they always did.
"Alessandro!" He threw an arm around my shoulders. "I was hoping you'd come out tonight."
I smiled so hard it hurt my face.
"I've found something," I said. "Something I need your help with."
"Anything." He said it instantly. No hesitation.
"A cask. 1847 Margaux. Supposedly flawless. But I think I've been cheated. I was going to ask Rossi to taste it, but—"
"Rossi?" He laughed — that warm, familiar laugh. "He'd call vinegar a vintage. Take me. Right now."
"You're already half-drunk. The crypt is freezing. You'll be sick for days."
He tightened his grip on my shoulder.
"Then we drink quickly and come back up. I'm not letting you get robbed by some wine peddler."
I let him pull me home.
The palazzo was silent.
Empty.
Just like I had arranged.
Two lanterns.
One for each of us.
The flame trembled in my hand the whole way down.
The stairs felt endless.
Every step echoed like a door closing behind us.
Giovanni hummed under his breath — some old song our mothers used to sing.
I wanted to scream at him to stop.
I wanted to fall on my knees and beg forgiveness right there.
Instead I kept walking.
We passed the family vault.
The bones watched us.
I felt their judgment like cold fingers on my neck.
I offered him Barolo first.
He drank.
Closed his eyes in pleasure.
"To us," he said softly. "To always having each other."
My throat closed.
I could barely whisper: "To always."
Deeper.
Darker.
Water dripping like slow blood from the ceiling.
When we reached the final recess — that narrow, waiting grave carved into the stone — he stepped inside without a second thought.
I moved faster than I meant to.
The lock clicked.
The chain sang its short, terrible song.
Giovanni turned.
His face in the lantern light looked suddenly small.
Lost.
"Alessandro…?"
The way he said my name broke something inside me.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't fear.
It was trust being torn in half.
"You bought the vineyard," I said. My voice cracked like dry wood. "Behind my back. You took the only thing I had left of him."
He shook his head — slowly, carefully — as though afraid to startle me.
"I bought it so you wouldn't lose it. The bank was two weeks from taking everything. You were drinking yourself to death. I was going to sign it back to you… next month. When you were yourself again."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "The papers are in my coat. Inside pocket. Alessandro… please. Just read them."
I turned away.
I picked up the first stone.
"Don't," he said.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Just quiet.
Like a man already dying.
I laid the stone.
The sound was obscene in the silence.
"Alessandro…"
He pulled at the chain once — weakly.
"I never wanted anything except for you to be all right. That's all. Ever."
Another stone.
My hands shook so badly I almost dropped it.
He started to cry.
Not loudly.
Just soft, broken sounds — the kind a child makes when he finally understands no one is coming to save him.
"Please," he whispered between sobs. "I'm begging you. Don't leave me here. Not like this. Not you."
I fitted another stone.
Dust fell like ash.
"I loved you," he said — so quietly I almost didn't hear it.
"More than anyone. Always."
The stone in my hands felt like it weighed a thousand years.
I looked at him one last time.
His face was wet.
His eyes were wide and pleading and still — even now — full of something gentle.
Something that refused to hate me.
"For the love of God, Alessandro…" he breathed.
"Don't do this to yourself."
I pushed the last stone into place.
It fit without a sound.
As though the wall had always been waiting for this moment.
There was a long, terrible stillness.
Then — from behind the stones — came the smallest sound.
A single, shattered sob.
Cut off abruptly.
As though he had pressed both hands over his mouth so I wouldn't have to hear him break.
I stood there.
Listening.
Waiting for more.
For curses.
For screams.
For anything.
Nothing came.
I arranged the bones.
One by one.
Until the wall looked untouched.
Until it looked like nothing had ever happened.
I climbed the stairs alone.
The lantern went out halfway up.
I kept climbing in perfect black.
His coat was still hanging in the hall.
I reached into the pocket.
My fingers closed around folded paper.
The deed.
The transfer agreement.
And a letter.
His handwriting — careful, familiar, kind.
Alessandro,
If you're reading this then something went wrong.
I know how proud you are. I know you hate being helped.
But the vineyard is yours again.
It was never mine.
It was always just waiting for you to come back to yourself.
When you're ready, come find me.
We'll sit under the old tree and open something ridiculous and expensive and laugh until we can't breathe.
I'll wait for you.
I always will.
Giovanni
I slid down the wall.
The letter trembled in my hands.
I pressed it to my mouth.
I tasted paper and salt and ruin.
I made no sound.
There was nothing loud enough inside me to match what I had done.
Fifty-two years now.
The wall still stands.
The bones still lie in their careful pile.
I go down every year on the night of carnival.
I sit in front of the stones.
I light one lantern.
I read the letter again — every word — until the flame gutters out.
I wait.
I listen.
Sometimes I think I hear breathing on the other side.
Soft.
Patient.
Still waiting for me to come to my senses.
But it's only my own heart — beating too hard, too late.
I whisper his name into the dark.
Again and again.
Until my voice gives out.
He never answers.
He never will.
And that silence
is the worst thing I have ever heard.
May God forgive me.
He never will.
And neither will I.
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