Zachary’s POV

[Tomorrow, ten in the morning. Nina has her prenatal appointment. You’ll accompany her. Schedule your annual health screening while you’re there.]

The message went unanswered.

Not that I expected anything different.

What I didn’t know—what no one bothered to tell me—was that Avery had already removed her SIM card, shut down the phone completely, and vanished. No forwarding address. No warning. No trail.

Just like that, she slipped out of my world.

The realization hit later, quietly, like the final echo of a door slamming shut behind someone who had no intention of ever returning. A sound you couldn’t undo. A sound that lingered.

---

The following morning, the private medical center was calm, discreet—the kind of place reserved for men whose names never appeared in police reports and women who never waited in lines. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh lilies.

Nina clung to my arm as if letting go might send her drifting.

“Zachary,” she murmured anxiously, fingers tightening. “Is the baby really alright?”

I kept my voice level, Don-steady. “The doctor confirmed it. No lasting effects from the estate incident.”

Her shoulders loosened. “Thank God. You’ve barely spoken since we arrived. I thought something was wrong.”

Something was.

Avery’s face wouldn’t leave my mind—the way she’d looked at me through smoke and chaos. No panic. No pleading. Just resignation. As if she already knew I wouldn’t choose her.

And the worst part?

She was right.

I hadn’t carried her out.

I’d carried Nina.

---

After lunch, I escorted Nina back to the Sterling estate, handed her over to security, then headed straight for the council hall.

Halfway down the corridor, my assistant caught up with me.

“Don Moretti,” he said quietly, “Sebia has returned from Europe. He’s requesting a full executive briefing with the consiglieri.”

I acknowledged him without slowing, but beneath the composed exterior, something twisted hard in my chest.

Avery was still missing.

She hadn’t appeared at the clinic. She hadn’t returned to the estate. None of the staff had seen her leave. No guards had logged her exit.

She’d disappeared without a trace.

When? How?

Where the hell had she gone?

I lengthened my stride, irritation sharpening into something more uncomfortable. “Arrange for a selection of the newest designer handbags,” I said over my shoulder. “And that custom jewelry set from Milan.”

“For Nina?” my assistant asked automatically.

I stopped.

My jaw tightened. “Send it to the Sterling estate.”

If Avery was anywhere, that was where she’d go.

And if she wasn’t—

I cut the thought off. The unease clawed deeper than I liked.

What if she was hurt?

Still recovering somewhere alone?

What if she had truly left—for good?

---

A week passed.

Just after midnight, I returned to the estate, exhaustion settling into my bones after an endless strategy session. The house was silent. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, painting the marble floors in silver.

A figure curled on the sofa caught my eye—wrapped in silk, motionless, almost familiar.

I exhaled, a low chuckle slipping out. “Avery,” I said without thinking. “I told you—no matter how late it gets, I always come back. You don’t need to—”

I stopped.

It wasn’t her.

Nina sat up slowly, fear flickering across her face. “Zachary… she hasn’t come back. Not once. I’ve messaged her so many times—apologies, explanations—nothing. Maybe I should leave. I don’t know what else to do.”

Her voice wavered.

I lowered myself beside her and pressed a hand to her forehead. It wasn’t tenderness. It wasn’t love. It was habit. Reassurance by default.

“Don’t overthink it,” I said calmly. “Stress isn’t good for the baby. This estate is yours now. Yours and the child’s. Whether Avery accepts that or not.”

---

Later, I stood alone on the terrace, robe loosely tied, city lights stretching endlessly below.

I lit a cigarette.

I hadn’t touched one in years, but tonight restraint felt pointless. The craving wasn’t for nicotine—it was for release from the pressure coiling in my chest.

I pulled out my phone.

My thumb hovered over the last name at the bottom of my contacts.

Avery.

I stared at it longer than necessary. Thought of calling. Thought of demanding answers. Thought of saying things I hadn’t allowed myself to feel.

In the end, I didn’t dial.

I typed instead.

[Avery. Tomorrow is Sebia’s eightieth birthday. Don’t cause trouble. Keep your distance from Nina and the child.]

The message sent.

I stared at the screen, chest tightening.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was the cold night air—

Or something else entirely.

No.

Not panic.

Something heavier.

Something I didn’t have a name for yet.

Zachary’s POV

Patriarch Sebia’s eightieth birthday was not merely a celebration—it was a ritual.

An event where every expression was calculated, every smile rehearsed, every gesture weighed for consequence. This was the kind of gathering where reputations were reinforced or quietly buried, where one wrong word could echo through boardrooms and bloodlines for years.

Perfection wasn’t optional. It was mandatory.

I entered the grand ballroom with Nina at my side, her pregnancy now unmistakable beneath the silk gown chosen by my staff. Conversations dipped as we passed. Eyes followed. Whispers moved like currents beneath calm water. I ignored all of it, my expression locked into the neutral mask I’d worn since becoming Don.

Inside, though, every instinct was on edge.

Something was wrong.

I didn’t release Nina’s hand until my grandfather made his entrance.

Patriarch Sebia commanded the room without effort. He always had. He wasn’t just the head of the famiglia—he was its foundation. A man who had built an empire with patience, discipline, and fear, yet had always treated me with a measured warmth he rarely extended beyond blood.

His gaze found mine immediately.

“Where is Avery?” he asked, without preamble.

The question hit harder than I expected.

I swallowed, keeping my voice level. “She’s occupied,” I replied smoothly. “She wanted to prepare something meaningful for your birthday. She’ll arrive later.”

The words sounded convincing. Even to my own ears.

Sebia studied me in silence, his eyes sharp, searching for cracks. The weight of that scrutiny made my chest tighten—but he said nothing more.

An hour passed.

Then another.

The ballroom filled with controlled laughter, crystal glasses clinking, respectful greetings exchanged between capos, politicians, and old-money investors. Yet Avery never appeared.

I found myself glancing toward the doors more often than I cared to admit. My jaw tightened with every passing minute.

Where the hell was she?

Just as I considered stepping away to make a call, a young courier appeared at the entrance.

He carried three carefully wrapped packages.

His posture was stiff, his hands faintly trembling—not from the weight, but from the room itself. His eyes darted between me and my grandfather, clearly uncertain who held greater authority in that moment.

“Delivery for Patriarch Sebia,” he announced. “From Ms. Avery.”

The sound of her name stalled everything inside me.

I cleared my throat. “Give them to me.”

He hesitated. “I was instructed to deliver them directly to the Patriarch, sir. Her instructions were… precise.”

Of course they were.

I stepped aside, gesturing toward my grandfather. “Then follow them.”

Sebia was in the middle of a quiet exchange with a board member when the courier approached. He bowed respectfully.

“These are from Ms. Avery,” he said. “She sends her birthday wishes.”

Sebia blinked, genuine confusion crossing his face. “Why didn’t she come herself?” he asked. “Where is she?”

The courier shook his head. “I was only assigned delivery, sir.”

A crease formed between my grandfather’s brows. Disappointment—unmistakable and heavy—settled into his expression. Still, he accepted the packages with practiced grace, placing them carefully on the table beside him.

His fingers lingered on the topmost box.

As if waiting for it to explain her absence.

I stepped closer, heart pounding despite myself. “Would you like me to open them for you?” I asked quietly.

“No,” he said at once. “I’ll do it.”

The first package revealed a hand-embroidered tapestry.

The craftsmanship was staggering—months of labor evident in every stitch. I knew how much time it had taken. I’d seen her hands raw and bleeding as she worked late into the night. The design honored longevity, lineage, legacy—everything my grandfather valued.

Sebia lifted it slowly, eyes shining as he traced the threads with unsteady fingers.

The second package followed.

Wrapped in velvet.

Inside lay a set of heirloom jewelry—the pieces that had once belonged to my grandmother. The same set Avery had worn on our wedding day.

My throat closed.

Why would she send these back?

The weight of it pressed down on my chest, heavy and unmistakable. My palms dampened.

Then there was the third box.

It sat there, silent.

Something in my gut twisted violently.

I didn’t wait.

My hand moved before reason could stop it, snatching the box from the courier. Sebia shot me a sharp look—but he didn’t interfere.

I tore away the wrapping.

And froze.

The contents drained the color from my face.

My breath caught, shallow and sharp, as my fingers trembled around the box. The meaning hit all at once—cold, deliberate, devastating.

This wasn’t a gift.

It was a message.

One I couldn’t unsee.

One the entire room would soon understand.