The woman from the hotel room.
I know exactly what she looks like because I allowed myself the mistake of looking.
That night, while she slept tangled in my sheets, I turned on the bedside lamp and studied her face like a man committing treason. The shape of her lips, the softness of her breathing, thefaint scent of her skin still clinging to my fingers. I told myself I needed to see her clearly, so I could forget her.
Because I had to forget her.
I never asked her name. Never allowed myself that indulgence. I’ve been taught my entire life that once you let a woman get inside your head, she will break you. And when you break, you lose everything.
That’s why I’ve stayed alive. That’s why, at forty-two, I remain in control while younger men rot beneath the dirt.
Seeing her now—here, at my son’s funeral—it unravels something deep inside me.
Why is she here? What is she doing at Dante’s grave?
Her presence feels like a question I’m not ready to answer.
I make no move. My face stays unreadable behind the glasses. If she sees me watching, she gives no indication. She stands perfectly still, as if willing herself invisible among the trees.
As Father Romano begins the final prayer, I see her shift. She takes one careful step backward, then another. Quiet, graceful, unnoticed by anyone else.
And then she turns, slipping away into the distance like a shadow dissolving into daylight.
I don’t follow.
I let her go.
4
KASI
Someone is watching me.
The feeling crawls up my spine like ice water, making every nerve ending scream danger. I keep my head down, shoulders hunched beneath my black coat, but I can feel eyes boring into me from across the cemetery.
I shouldn’t have come. This was stupid, reckless, everything Mrs. Rosetti would scold me for if she knew. But I had to see it with my own eyes—had to watch them put Dante Moretti in the ground and know, absolutely know, that my nightmare is finally over.
The priest drones on about eternal rest and peace, words that would make me laugh if I weren’t so terrified. Peace. As if someone like Dante could ever find it, even in death.
I shift slightly behind the oak tree, trying to get a better view of the graveside service. That’s when I see him—a man in an expensive black suit standing at the head of the gathering. Silver hair, broad shoulders, and an aura of command that makes everyone else fade into the background.
And despite never having seen him before, I know exactly who he is.
Dante’s father.
Alaric Moretti.
The same cold green eyes, the same sharp cheekbones and cut jawline that Dante inherited, only older, more dangerous. The man Dante rarely spoke of, except to curse or dismiss.Estranged for years,he always said.Not part of my life anymore.
But now, standing here, I can see the blood between them clear as day.
I don’t wait for him to make a move.
I turn and hurry off.
My heels click against the pavement as I weave between headstones, putting as much distance as possible between myself and whatever that was. Behind me, I hear the rumble of voices, the shuffle of feet as the service continues, but I don’t look back.
Three blocks from the cemetery, I finally slow down, my lungs burning. The bus stop sits next to a large maple tree, and I check the schedule with shaking hands. The next bus to Rosehill doesn’t leave for twenty minutes.
