Ilaria. The Women We Loved

Sitting at the helm of a small wooden gozzo with a dark blue hull, he corrects his course on the waters of Lake Como when a faceless name draws him south, toward Ilaria, who reads in the clauses what the clans leave unsaid and would rather conceal behind an acronym. The plot brushes against the Mafia, or perhaps only its shadow, but the submerged thread running beneath the accounts and the names connects more than debts: it connects his father's Fiat 124, the fear of telling the whole truth, and the women we love when there is no longer any way to love them well.
The reader would do well to distrust the man telling this story. Ilaria knows all too well the difference between those who sign, those who give the orders, and those who pay, and she begins to understand that he treated love as he treated business: he divided the truth into incomplete versions, separated desire from responsibility, and trusted that no woman would ever demand to see the whole picture.
As she follows the money, the families, and the hidden names, she will have to decide, not whether she still loves him, an easy and almost pointless question, but whether she should remain where she was loved only to the precise extent that she never forced a man to choose.