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.

The cannoli had sat in the refrigerator all night.

The cream had slumped along the edges, giving off the sour, spoiled smell of something gone off.

My son opened the refrigerator door and looked at it.

It was the peace offering Lorenzo had made a point of bringing home the night before.

One of the rare times he'd remembered what his son liked.

But it had come too late.

His face calm, my son took the box out, and without a moment's hesitation, dropped it straight into the trash.

The lid eased shut.

Like a final period set at the end of this crumbling bond between father and son.

Nine o'clock sharp.

The Castellano family's consigliere arrived right on time.

The dissolution of the alliance had cleared its final review.

I opened the file and let my eyes settle on the last page.

The division of holdings was clean and exact.

And the column for custody had long since been written out, plain and final.

From the moment the pact was signed.

Only one last formality remained between Lorenzo and me.

After the consigliere left, I idly scrolled through my feed.

Five minutes earlier.

Gianna had posted an update.

【Got the family portrait rushed through.】

【Nico says it's the best gift he's gotten all year. He insists on hanging it over his bed.】

The attached photo was the family portrait from yesterday.

In it, Lorenzo held Nico, and Gianna leaned against him.

Sunlight fell over the three of them.

Warm, as if they were the real family.

I looked at it for a few quiet seconds.

Then closed the page.

No like. No comment.

I couldn't even summon half an ounce of feeling for it.

My son sat at the dining table, folding a paper airplane.

The heavy cream stock came together neat and crisp in his hands.

He caught a glimpse of my phone screen.

His eyes rested there for only an instant, then calmly moved away.

The one who'd once cared about all this most.

Was now the first to let it go.

"Mom."

He set the finished airplane aside.

"Do you have the papers?"

"We should get going."

I watched him put on that grown-up front, and something in my chest went tight and bitter.

But I smiled and nodded all the same.

"I've got it."

"Let's go home."

Noon.

My son and I didn't tell anyone.

We didn't trouble the Moretti family's driver or soldiers either.

We just called a car and headed straight for the airfield.

The car pulled slowly away from the estate above the water.

My son sat in the back, holding his tablet.

He didn't say a word the whole way.

He only flipped quietly through the photos in an album.

Inside it was every memory he had of his father's love over the years.

There was the photo from just after he was born, the first time Lorenzo held him.

That always decisive, ruthless man, fumbling, so careful he'd softened even his breathing.

There was the night the Family celebrated his fifth year.

Lorenzo leading him by the hand into the room, under the eyes of every made man at the table, presenting him with pride:

"This is my son. The blood of this house."

And one afternoon, years ago.

Father and son standing on the lawn of the compound.

Lorenzo holding his hands from behind, teaching him bit by bit to swing a golf club.

In the video, my son was laughing, so happy.

Padre this, Padre that.

His eyes full of worship.

The car was terrifyingly quiet.

My son didn't cry.

He didn't fuss.

But that silent grief hurt to watch more than any tears would have.

I reached out and gently took his small, slightly cold hand.

He startled for a moment.

Then closed his fingers around mine.

He didn't say anything.

One o'clock.

The terminal speakers began the boarding announcement.

Just then, my phone rang.

The caller ID.

Lorenzo.

I looked at it for a few seconds, then answered.

The other end was loud and chaotic.

I could just make out crying and the sound of people running.

Lorenzo's voice came fast and frantic.

"Adriana, tell our son I'm sorry."

"Nico just fell from the stands at the club. He's broken his lower leg, and Gianna's terrified."

"I'm taking him in right now."

"There's no way I'll make it this afternoon."

"Take our son home for now. I'll go with him in a couple of days."

"Tell him I'll make it up to him."

He spoke fast and urgent.

Racing against the clock.

He didn't even wait for me to speak.

The call cut off in a hurry.

Quiet returned to my ear.

I looked down at my son.

He'd clearly heard all of it.

But he only asked, calmly:

"Was that Padre?"

"Mm."

"He bailed again?"

I was silent for two seconds.

Then nodded.

My son didn't react at all.

No disappointment.

No grief.

As if he'd known all along it would end this way.

He just lowered his head and opened the tablet again.

Tapped into that album he'd treasured for years.

Inside was every memory he had of his father.

Photos.

Videos.

Birthdays.

Trips.

And all those warm moments he'd never been able to bring himself to delete.

He stared at the screen for a long time.

So long I thought he would cry.

But in the end.

He simply tapped the top right corner.

Select all.

Delete.

A confirmation window popped up.

【Permanently delete?】

My son didn't hesitate for a second.

He pressed confirm.

The screen went blank in an instant.

As if none of it had ever existed.

The announcement sounded again.

Calling passengers to board.

My son put the tablet away and reached for my hand on his own.

"Mom."

"Let's go."

Two o'clock sharp.

The plane surged down the runway.

With a tremendous roar, it climbed slowly into the clouds.

I fitted the noise-canceling headphones over my son's ears.

Shutting out all the noise and the turmoil.

Beyond the window.

The familiar territory shrank, bit by bit.

The compound, the streets, the river that had marked the edge of Moretti ground.

Until they became distant black specks.

I looked down at the city that had held seven years of a marriage between two bloodlines.

And let out the stale breath I'd carried in my chest for so long.

From today on.

There would be no more endless waiting in my son's life, or mine.

Goodbye.

Lorenzo.