When I finally understood that Lorenzo Moretti would never let go of Gianna Bellandi, I didn't cry or rage. I didn't ask him one more time which of us he actually loved.

I simply began teaching our seven-year-old son to call him something new.

From "Papà" to "Uncle Lorenzo."

The first time was when our son was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis.

The little thing was burning hot all over, an IV needle taped into the back of his hand, the pain shaking tears loose one by one.

Lorenzo hadn't been at the bedside ten minutes before Gianna's call came through.

"Lorenzo, Nico Everett's running a fever, he won't stop crying for you, I really don't know what to do anymore…"

The voice on the line was frantic, sobbing, and the worry on Lorenzo's face turned in an instant toward someone else.

He got up in a hurry, left behind a single "I have to step out," and walked out of the room without looking back. Two of his soldiers peeled off the wall to follow him, soundless on the polished floor.

Our son reached out a small hand to catch him, and closed it on empty air.

I held his cold little hand and said quietly,

"Say goodbye to Uncle Lorenzo."

That day, eyes rimmed red, he called him "Uncle Lorenzo" for the first time.

The second time was his seventh birthday.

For the trip he'd been waiting for, he'd started counting down on the calendar half a month early, circling one day at a time.

The night before we were supposed to leave, he was too excited to sleep, hugging his little backpack and checking again and again that he hadn't forgotten anything.

But just as we were about to go, Gianna called again.

She said through her tears that Nico envied other kids who had a father with them, that he was throwing a fit and refusing to eat.

Lorenzo was silent for a long while. In the end he picked up his coat anyway. His hand drifted, the way it always did when guilt was winning, to the old scar beneath his collarbone.

The light in our son's eyes dimmed, little by little.

I didn't try to stop him. I just handed our son the tablet.

"Cancel Uncle Lorenzo's plane ticket."

The little thing took it with his head down and pressed the refund button without a word.

Start to finish, no crying, no fuss.

Later, out of guilt, I think.

Lorenzo did the rare thing and turned down a sit-down that had kept the heads of three Families waiting, insisting on coming with us to have a family portrait taken.

Our son was happy for a whole week.

He picked out his favorite little suit specially, and asked me every day when we were going to take the photos.

But the car had barely stopped at the studio door when Gianna's call came, right on time.

"Lorenzo, the other kids made fun of Nico for not having a father, and now he won't stop crying for you…"

The familiar voice. The familiar reason.

Lorenzo gripped his phone, and the struggle surfaced on his face again. Two fingers found the scar through his shirt.

He looked at our son as if he wanted to explain something, or maybe wanted to stay.

But before he could get a word out, our son had already given him a little wave.

"It's fine, Uncle Lorenzo."

The little thing's voice was soft, but so calm it ached to hear.

"You go."

"It's actually fine if you're not in the family photo."

In that instant, Lorenzo froze where he stood.

He had probably finally realized that our son had really changed what he called him.

But what he didn't know was that from the day he turned and walked away for Gianna and her boy, again and again, what our son lost was never his company. It was the last bit of hope he had in his father.

Day twenty-seven of the dissolution of the alliance.

Our son had finally stopped waiting for his papà.

…

When that "Uncle Lorenzo" left our son's mouth, the whole hallway went quiet. Even the soldier posted by the door went very still, eyes lowered, as if he hadn't heard a thing.

Lorenzo and I both froze in place.

The truth was, today marked the twenty-seventh day since I'd discovered that his heart had drifted completely away from this family.

In those twenty-seven days, every time Lorenzo abandoned us for Gianna and her boy, I would hold our son late at night and quietly teach him to change what he called his father.

"From now on, call him Uncle Lorenzo."

I wasn't doing it out of spite.

I only wanted to tell myself, and to tell our son,

to stop pinning his hopes on a person who no longer belonged to this family.

But our son was only seven.

Lorenzo had once been the man he admired most.

The father he was proudest of, the don whose name he whispered like other boys whispered the names of saints, the hero he bragged about to everyone.

Every time I asked him to change what he called his father, he would shake his head, eyes going red.

Sometimes his little face would flush all the way crimson, and still he wouldn't say those two words.

But today, he said it on his own.

No hurt, no tears.

His tone as calm as if he were addressing the most ordinary of strangers.

Meeting Lorenzo's disbelieving gaze, our son took my hand and spoke, polite and distant.

"Uncle Lorenzo, you go take care of your things."

"Mamma, our appointment's almost here. Let's not keep the photographer waiting."

With that, he led me straight toward the studio. His other hand was wrapped tight around the little toy car he carried, pressed to his chest.

From start to finish, he never looked back at Lorenzo again.

And this shoot was supposed to be a family portrait of the three of us.

A feature for the kind of glossy magazine that opened doors no soldier ever could, a rare bit of light to set against everything the Moretti name kept in the dark.

To make up for missing our son's birthday, Lorenzo had cleared his own calendar and promised he would be there to finish the shoot with us.

The day he made that promise, our son was so happy he didn't sleep all night.

He even drew red circles on the wall calendar in his room, half a month of them.

Every night before bed, he would carefully cross off one day.

Counting on his fingers, waiting for his father to keep his word.

But now, when that hope had turned to disappointment,

the child who had once wanted his father's love most of all had been the first to learn how to give it up.

Walking behind him, I felt as if something had been torn open in my chest, the pain so sharp I could barely breathe.

What finally made me see Lorenzo clearly was an equestrian club pass from half a month ago.

That day, while I was tidying his suit, an invitation to a private equestrian club fell out of his pocket.

On his seventh birthday, our son's biggest wish had been for his father to take him riding, just once.

But Lorenzo had refused without a second thought.

He said the alliance with the Eastern Families was at a critical stage, that one wrong move would cost the famiglia everything, and he couldn't get away.

Our son had lowered his head, disappointed, and still said, like the good boy he was,

"It's okay. Papà's work is more important."

Yet only three days later, I saw that very club on Gianna's social media.

A members-only private club, the kind that kept its gates shut to anyone without the right name.

In the photos, Lorenzo in casual riding clothes, laughing, Gianna's son hoisted up on his shoulders.

Gianna on his arm, leaning into him, the smile on her face as happy as any family of three.

The caption was a single line:

【The favorite equestrian club, of course you come with the best dad.】

In that moment, I found it absurd, almost funny.

So it turned out the no time he'd spoken of only meant no time for his own son.

So it turned out the alliance he'd named couldn't outweigh a single "I want to go" from Gianna.

Gianna was his first love.

Her brother had been one of his soldiers, dead years ago, gunned down taking the bullet meant for Lorenzo.

All these years, Lorenzo had treated caring for the two of them as a blood debt.

But a debt and favoritism have never been the same thing.

That night, we had the worst fight of our entire marriage.

For the first time, I asked to dissolve the union.

Lorenzo reacted as if he'd heard some absurd joke.

He frowned, his tone looking down at me from above:

"Adriana Castellano, can't you stop being so unreasonable?"

"I look after them only because I owe them."

"Do you really have to make everything this complicated?"

He was always like this.

Used to controlling everything, the way a don controls a room without raising his voice.

Used to covering every bit of favoritism with one word: "debt."

And used to making me give way, time after time.

But that day, I saw our son hiding behind the sofa.

His small body curled into a ball.

Shaking, frightened by our shouting.

In that instant, I suddenly understood.

If I kept giving way, what would be destroyed wasn't only my marriage.

It was the last hope our son had in his father.

So I didn't argue anymore.

Instead, I tried a different way.

I got Lorenzo to sign a thirty-day dissolution agreement.

If his heart had long since left this family,

then our son and I had to learn to let go too.

So I tried a different way.

I played every card I had left and got Lorenzo Moretti to put his name on that thirty-day dissolution of the alliance, a cooling-off pact between two old bloodlines.

Now we were on day twenty-seven.

It was also the first day my son called him "Uncle Lorenzo" on his own.

When we walked out of the portrait studio, Lorenzo was still rooted to the spot, the way a made man freezes when a shot comes from a direction he never watched.

It wasn't until my son and I had almost stepped into the elevator that he snapped back to himself.

"Wait!"

He came after us in long strides, and the two soldiers flanking the corridor stepped aside without being told.

The shock and panic in his eyes were almost impossible to hide.

He reached out, as if to catch hold of his son.

To ask him why he'd changed what he called him.

To ask why he'd suddenly turned so distant.

But just then his phone rang, cutting across everything.

A name jumped on the screen.

Gianna Bellandi.

Lorenzo went still.

The call connected, and a woman's voice came through, thick with tears.

"Lorenzo, Nico got into a fight with another boy and he's hurt, he keeps crying for his padrino…"

"I really don't know what to do…"

Wronged, helpless, frightened.

Every word landed precisely where Lorenzo carried the old debt, the bullet his hand still drifted toward beneath his collarbone.

The elevator doors slid open.

I stood inside, holding my son's hand.

Through the narrowing gap I watched the expression on Lorenzo's face change, bit by bit.

Worry.

Hesitation.

A struggle.

And then, in the end, all of it hardened into a decision.

In the end he still chose Gianna and her son.

The same as all the countless times before.

Lorenzo gripped his phone and said in a low voice,

"Don't worry. I'm on my way."

Then he looked up at us.

A trace of unease finally surfaced in those black eyes that were always so calm, the eyes of a Boss who had ordered men into the ground without blinking.

"Adriana, you two go on home first."

"I'll explain tonight when I'm back."

Explain?

I almost found it funny.

Some things, explained once, are a misunderstanding.

Explained a hundred times, they're a choice.

The elevator doors closed all the way.

Sealing his figure away.

A few minutes later the roar of an engine rose from the underground garage.

That black Maybach pulled away from the studio.

And pulled away, completely, from the last of my son's hopes.

In the quiet of the underground garage, two of his enforcers waiting by the pillar pretended not to watch us.

My son suddenly stopped walking.

The next second, he threw himself into my arms.

Everything he'd held down for so long finally broke loose.

Scalding tears fell in big drops, soaking the hem of my dress.

My chest ached.

I wrapped my arms gently around him.

His shoulders shook with crying that wouldn't stop.

After a long while, he lifted his small, flushed face.

His voice so soft I could barely hear it.

And yet so firm it made my nose sting.

"Mama."

"Let's not want Papa anymore, okay?"

In that moment, my eyes suddenly burned.

So the first one to learn how to give up.

Wasn't me.

It was the child who had once loved his father the most, the little blood heir of the Moretti name, holding that toy car so tight his knuckles had gone white.

Back at the riverside estate.

I went straight upstairs and dragged a few large suitcases out of the closet.

I started packing my things and my son's.

Papers, clothes, the documents that let a Castellano cross any border untouched.

One by one, into the cases.

Three days left in the cooling-off pact.

In three days, I would take my son and leave this place for good, back behind Castellano walls where no Moretti soldier could follow.

Just as I lowered my head to book the flights.

My phone buzzed.

A direct message from Gianna.

I opened it. A freshly taken photo.

And the backdrop in that photo was, unmistakably, the very studio we'd just left.

In the picture.

Gianna wore a long white dress, her smile soft and gentle.

Lorenzo in a crisp suit, Nico held in his arms.

The three of them leaning together.

Like a real family of three.

Beneath it, a single line:

【Isn't it just a family portrait?】

【Whenever I want, we can be a family anytime.】

I stared at that line for a few seconds.

And then I laughed.

If this had been before.

I would have called Lorenzo right away to demand answers.

To ask why he couldn't keep the promises he made to his own son.

To ask why he always let someone else take the place that belonged to us.

But now.

I didn't even have the strength to be angry.

I closed the chat.

My thumb found the bare finger where my ring used to sit, and turned a band that wasn't there anymore.

And went ahead and booked the flights to Los Angeles three days out, into Castellano territory.

When the payment-confirmed notice popped up.

The door opened downstairs.

Before long.

Lorenzo walked into the living room, and the soldier at the entrance straightened and went silent the way men always did when the Don crossed his own threshold.

And in his hand, of all things, was a box of durian mille-crêpe cake.

My son and I both froze.

Neither of us said a word.

Because everyone under the Moretti roof knew.

Lorenzo hated durian.

He'd even frown at the smell of it.

My son used to love it.

But because he was afraid of upsetting his father, every birthday he'd choose plain dark chocolate instead.

He never once dared say the word durian.

Yet today.

This man who held an entire syndicate in his fist, whose name made other Families lower their voices.

Had actually gone and bought a durian mille-crêpe himself.

Absurd, like some kind of joke.

Lorenzo stepped closer.

His gaze fell on the suitcases spread open in the middle of the living room.

His face darkened all at once.

"Why are you packing so much?"

He set the cake down and asked, frowning.

My expression stayed calm.

"I want to take our son away for a while, to clear our heads."

When he heard that.

He visibly let out a breath.

Like a stone that had been hanging over his heart had finally dropped.

"That's good too."

"There really has been a lot going on lately."

As he spoke, he undid his cuff links and crouched down to my son's eye level.

The hard lines of his face softened, rare for him.

There was even a clumsy sort of eagerness to please.

"Papa bought you a cake today."

"Do you want to have some together?"

"I've already had someone rebook the photo studio. Day after tomorrow, in the afternoon."

Lorenzo crouched down in front of his son, lowering himself in a way the Don of the Moretti Family rarely did before any man.

"This time Daddy promises. I won't break it. I swear."

The boy's hands paused over his model, mid-piece.

He lifted his head slowly, glanced at Lorenzo, and something hesitant flickered in his eyes.

But in the end he was only seven.

No matter how many times he'd been let down, the moment his father made a promise, the hope rose in him all the same.

He couldn't help looking over at me.

In those clear, wide eyes was a careful, cautious question, and a wanting.

Something in my chest gave.

After a few seconds of silence, I nodded anyway.

"Okay."

Call it granting the child one last wish.

The instant he had my answer, his eyes lit up.

He scooped the supercar model into his arms and bolted back to his room in his slippers, even the back of him glowing with a happiness I hadn't seen in a long time.

The living room went quiet again.

I went on folding the clothes into the suitcase.

Lorenzo stood where he was, watching me for a long while, and then, as if he'd finally worked up the nerve, came over.

"Adriana."

His voice dropped low, the way it did when he gave an order no one in his crew dared question.

"About Matteo calling me Uncle Lorenzo today…"

My hands stilled for a moment, and I looked up at him.

He was quiet for a beat, then set the cake down on the table, took my hand, and pressed it gently to his chest.

Through the expensive fabric of his suit, I could feel his heartbeat, a little quick. Beneath it, two fingers' breadth from where my palm lay, was the old scar he carried for a dead man.

"I know you've been angry with me lately."

"Angry that I've put too much into Gianna and Nico, that I've neglected you and our son."

He said it earnestly. There was even a rare tiredness in his eyes.

"But Adriana, there's nothing else between Gianna and me. I swear it."

"Her brother took a bullet meant for me. I owe that family a blood debt."

"All these years, a woman raising a child on her own, it hasn't been easy. I can't just wash my hands of them."

"Give me a little more time. Once I've got them settled, I promise I'll put my family first again. I'll never let you and our son feel slighted again."

I looked at him quietly.

At this face that had once made my heart turn over more times than I could count.

For a strange moment, I couldn't even remember the last time he'd looked at me this intently.

Was it the night of our union, when the two bloodlines were joined and he stood beneath the lit terrace of the Castellano estate and made his vows to me?

Or the night our son was born, when he kissed my forehead with red-rimmed eyes?

Those promises I'd once believed without a shred of doubt had worn away, disappointment by disappointment, until there was nothing left.

I looked at him, and all at once I wanted to say everything.

To tell him the dissolution of the alliance had three days left.

To tell him I'd already booked the flight to Los Angeles, to my own people, where Castellano steel would shut every door behind me.

To tell him that what he was about to lose was never one argument, but the whole family.

"Lorenzo, the truth is, I—"

I didn't get to finish. He cut me off.

As if he'd just remembered something important.

His eyes brightened, and he said quickly,

"Oh, right, where's that Bugatti model of Matteo's? The limited-edition factory one?"

I went still for a second.

Lorenzo was already going on,

"Nico's been begging for one these past couple days."

"Gianna's tried everything to settle him down, but nothing works."

"I'll just take it over and let him play with it for a few days. I'll bring it back later."

The air seemed to freeze in that instant.

I didn't even get the chance to speak.

His hand had already left my chest, the scar forgotten, and he'd turned for the study.

In under a minute he came back out with it, the model my son had treasured for three whole months, the one he wouldn't even let anyone bend the packaging on.

He grabbed his keys and hurried for the door.

"I'm heading over."

"Don't forget to remind me about the photos the day after tomorrow."

The next second.

"Bang—"

The heavy door slammed shut in front of me, solid as the gate of a safe house.

The living room fell silent again.

I stood there, and for a long time I didn't move.

So all of it just now, the tenderness, the guilt, the promises.

In the end, none of it could outweigh one word of need from Gianna and her son.

A long while later, looking at the empty entryway, I finally finished, softly, the words I hadn't gotten to say.

"Lorenzo."

"The truth is, our son and I don't want you anymore."

The cooling-off period had three days left.

And our marriage, too, had only three days left.

Midnight.

After I finished the last of my work, I rubbed my aching temples and lay down alone on the empty bed.

Matteo was already asleep.

The whole villa was so quiet there was nothing but the ticking of the clock.

Just then my phone lit up.

A message from Lorenzo.

"Nico loves the model."

"I spent the whole evening building it with him. Gianna wanted me to make sure to thank you."

I stared at those few lines for a long time.

And found it suddenly absurd.

My husband. The Don men straightened their backs for.

Building a model late into the night with another woman's child.

A model that had belonged to his own son.

Without so much as an apology.

The corner of my mouth twitched.

Even anger felt like a waste of energy.

Some people don't simply fail to see it.

They only pretend not to.

I tapped the screen and replied calmly.

"It's fine. No need to thank me."

A few seconds later, I sent a second message.

"But it wasn't from me."

"That Bugatti model was the gift Matteo wanted most for his seventh birthday."

"He waited three whole months."

"He'd wanted to wait and build it together with his dad."

The message went through.

I didn't wait for a reply.

I turned the phone off then and there.

Closed my eyes.

And let this marriage, already in pieces, run down its final countdown.