His jaw tightens. "What?"
"Leaving him," I clarify. "For answers. For fights. For you."
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, maybe—but it's gone just as fast.
"You won't have to," he promises.
That's not reassurance. It's a statement of intent.
I step closer anyway, lowering my voice. "You don't get to decide that alone."
His gaze drops to my throat. The marks he left there. The ones I'll have to explain or continue to hide.
"I already did," his words make me shiver, and the expression in his eyes turns my blood cold.
I should argue. I should push back. I should remind him who I am and what I've survived. Instead, I glance toward the couch, where Amauri is already curled into the corner, space cartoons murmuring softly, Nutella abandoned on the table like evidence of a small, perfect rebellion.
"I'm his mother," I iterate. "That's the only thing that's non-negotiable."
Massimo nods once. "Good."
The word settles between us, heavy and loaded. His jaw is locked tight. He studies me like one might a structure under stress, eyes cutting, searching for fractures, for omissions, for the place where I might still be lying to him. It's the look he wears before violence. Or truth.
"I have to go," his voice is clipped, like his mind is already half elsewhere. Then, quieter, deadly precise, "But I need to know something first."
My spine straightens.
"Did Bello come to you," he asks, "and tell you I was in an accident?"
The question hits harder than it should. Accident. The word detonates backward through ten years of grief and fury and abandonment. My breath stutters. He didn't disappear. He didn't choose silence. He washurt. Broken. Taken out of the world the same way I was, without consent.
But there's no time to process that now. I can feel it; this question is loaded. Not emotionally. Strategically. Whatever answer I give him is about to change something far bigger than us. All I can give him is the truth. All of it. With everything I have.
"I swear," I keep my eyes on his and my voice steady even as my chest tightens, "the first time I ever met Bello was at your mansion. I went there looking for you. He told me to leave. He said I wasn't welcome." His eyes darken. His focus narrows. "The second time I saw him," I continue, "was yesterday. At your… Oven."
Silence drops between us like a blade. I want to ask him about the accident—how bad it was, how long he was gone—but I can see it in his face. His mind has already pivoted. This isn't about the past anymore. It's about now. About Amauri. About who decided what for all of us.
I want to ask about Carter, too. About where he is. What Massimo plans to do. Not now. This man doesn't multitask emotion. When he locks onto something, everything else waits, or burns.
"I didn't betray you," I say, stepping closer before I lose the nerve. I rise onto my toes, press a kiss to his mouth. Notdesperate. Not apologetic. Certain. "I did what I had to do to keep our son alive."
His hands come up and stop just short of touching me. For a heartbeat, I think he might pull me back. That he'll say something final. Something irreversible. Instead, his hand moves forward, and his palm rests against my cheek. His dark eyes are full of regret and words we don't have time to say. That's when I know how dangerous this has become.
For a moment, I melt the side of my face into his hand. He nods, and I turn back to Amauri just as the soft click of the door sounds behind me. The suite settles into a quiet that feels almost unreal after everything.
Massimo is gone.
For now.
Amauri glances over his shoulder at me from the couch. "Is he mad?"
I smooth my hand over his hair, smiling even though my chest still aches. "No, baby. He just has… work." He nods, accepting this like he accepts too many things children shouldn't have to.
"I'll be right back," I promise and make a mad dash toward the bathroom to wash up before I return to sit beside him, pulling him close. One truth settles in with terrifying clarity: Whatever storm Massimo's about to unleash, we're standing in the middle of it. But Amauri is here. Warm. Alive. Curled against my side like he's done a thousand times before. And Massimo—Massimo didn't leave me. Not then. Not ten years ago. Not the way I thought. He didn't disappear. He was taken out of the world the same brutal way I was. The realization is too big. Too sharp. My chest feels tight, my pulse skidding higher and higher as questions pile up faster than I can grab them.
How bad was the accident?
How long was he unconscious?
