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.

The next morning, for once, Lorenzo didn't have his driver take him to the social club to sit at the head of the standing meet. He came back early to the estate by the water instead.

The moment he pushed open the door to the dressing room, his steps stopped dead.

Four silver suitcases stood in a neat row against the wall, as if announcing something in silence.

He stared at them for a few seconds, his brow knotting without his meaning it to.

"It's just a trip to clear your head. You need to bring all this?"

There was an edge of panic in his voice that he didn't even notice himself.

I was crouched in front of our son, fixing his shirt collar, and I didn't look up.

"Where we're going is a little far. We might stay a while."

His expression shifted slightly, and he looked at the boy on instinct.

Matteo nodded quietly.

Only then did the tension in him ease a little.

Then, as if he'd prepared something on purpose, he took three gold-embossed VIP passes from the inside of his jacket.

The sunlight caught the cards and threw off a dazzling shine.

"Adriana."

"Matteo's been wanting to go to the club for a while now. That's my fault. I never made the time."

"I called off this morning's sit-down. I had one of my men pull private passes for us."

He crouched down and set the passes in front of the boy.

"The three of us are going right now."

"Today Papà's going to ride with you."

His voice was gentle, a rare thing.

There was even a coaxing note in it, as if he wanted to please.

For a moment I lost my focus.

Matteo had wanted to go to the equestrian club nearly a month ago.

So it turned out he hadn't forgotten.

He'd only thought to make it up to him now.

Thinking of the message last night, I suddenly understood.

This making-up wasn't because he'd finally remembered his son's wish.

It was because he felt guilty.

Because of that line, "I wanted to wait and finish building the model with Papà."

So he'd started trying to fix it.

That was all.

I said nothing.

But Matteo's eyes lit up.

He pressed his lips together and asked softly,

"Really?"

"Papà's taking me riding today?"

It was a look of hope I hadn't seen on his face in a long time.

He was still just a child, after all.

Even after being let down again and again.

The moment his father reached out even a little, he still couldn't help wanting to lean in.

Something in my chest ached.

I'd just been about to agree when I saw Lorenzo's expression turn a little awkward.

He gave a light cough.

As if weighing his words.

"But…"

The smile in Matteo's eyes stalled.

"If we go to the club today, you two have to promise me one thing."

"What thing?"

I said it flatly.

Lorenzo avoided my eyes. His hand drifted, two fingers resting against the old scar beneath his collarbone. His voice dropped, clearly.

"Gianna knows we've set the family portrait for tomorrow."

"She's worried Nico will be upset when he finds out, and that he'll act out again."

"So I was thinking…"

"What if we pushed the family portrait back?"

"There'll be plenty of chances later anyway."

The air went still in an instant.

The smile on Matteo's face faded, bit by bit.

The eyes that had just lit up dimmed, bit by bit.

So the club was real.

Riding with him was real too.

But the price of all of it was giving up what was his, again.

Matteo slowly lowered his head.

Both small hands clenched tight around the hem of his shirt.

After a long moment, he gave a soft "Oh."

The sound was so faint it was almost impossible to hear.

But Lorenzo let out a breath, as if he'd finally settled a debt.

He didn't even notice the boy's disappointment.

He went on explaining, patiently, his fingers still pressed to the scar,

"A family portrait can be taken anytime."

"There'll be lots of chances later."

"But Nico's different. He's never had a father, so he's a sensitive boy."

"Son, you can understand that, can't you?"

It suddenly struck me as faintly absurd.

Because even now, in this moment.

He still thought he was being reasonable.

He'd never once stopped to think.

That his own son was also only a seven-year-old child.

And that after tomorrow.

There would never be a chance to take that so-called family portrait again.

Neither Matteo nor I said a word.

Neither of us called it out.

I just looked at him, calm.

And turned the empty finger where a ring no longer sat, the slow phantom motion of a vow already dead.

I tugged the corner of my mouth.

"All right."

"We'll do as you say."

Once he had his answer, Lorenzo visibly relaxed.

He even showed a smile, rare in all this time.

"Then it's settled."

"I'll let Gianna know now."

"One o'clock this afternoon. I'll see you at the club."

He bent his head to fix his cufflinks as he spoke, then turned and headed for the door.

At the doorway, he suddenly stopped.

And looked back at us.

"Son."

"Thank you both for understanding."

The only answer was the silence of the room.

Neither Matteo nor I said anything.

We just watched him go.

Until the reinforced door slowly closed.

And the last trace of hope on Matteo's face vanished with it.

In silence, he fit the supercar model back into its box.

His movements careful, as if he were putting away something precious.

Then he slid down off the couch.

Dragging the little suitcase he'd packed long ago, he came over to me.

He tilted his head up and asked,

"Mamma."

"Let's not go to the club, okay?"

"I don't want to wait anymore."

In that moment, my heart ached for him.

Because I knew.

What he was giving up wasn't the club.

It was his father.

I crouched down and held him gently.

And ran my hand through his soft hair.

"Mamma's already rebooked the flight."

"Two o'clock this afternoon. We're going back to Los Angeles."

Matteo nodded hard.

No sorrow.

No tears.

As if he'd finally set down something heavy.

And I got up and walked into the kitchen.

In this estate by the water where I'd lived for years.

To make one last breakfast for my son and me.

The last time, too, that I would stand here as the Donna of the Moretti house.