That truth settles into my bones with a cold certainty that won’t shake loose. No panic. No accident. No mistake. Someone planned this—and whoever made it possible knows exactly what they’re doing, because they’ve managed the one thing no one has ever accomplished before.
They took something from me. And they’re still breathing.
For now.
I’m standing on the tarmac, the hum of another jet warming behind me, Dallas blinking on the departure board like the next battlefield, when my phone rings.
“What is it?” I snap.
“It’s Fran, boss. She’s at the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Her parents called. Said she was bleeding—thought she might be losing the baby.” A pause, heavy. “You should get here.”
The call ends, leaving nothing but the wind and the echo of his words.
Losing the baby.
I stare straight ahead, jaw locked, every instinct pulling me in two directions.
Do I keep hunting the woman who disappeared so completely she may as well have erased herself from the earth?
Or do I go back to the woman who is carrying my name, my future, my obligation—the woman who promised to be my wife?
Either choice costs me something.
I close my eyes for exactly one second, then flag down the flight attendant.
“We’re going to Chicago,” I say.
Duty wins.
But as the jet turns and the runway blurs beneath us, one truth burns hotter than the rest. Elizabeth may be gone.
But this isn’t over.
4
Lorenzo
I find Fran in a private room on the maternity ward, propped up against white pillows, her skin washed pale beneath the harsh hospital lights. Both her parents flank the bed like guards. Her mother is clutching a rosary so tightly her knuckles are white. Her father stands rigid, jaw set, eyes sharp and assessing as I enter.
Cesaro waits just outside the door. When he sees me, he dips his head once in respect. A silent confirmation that things were worse than I’d been told.
Fran looks up when she hears my footsteps. For a moment, I don’t recognize her. Not because she’s changed, but because I haven’t allowed myself to really see her in weeks. She looks fragile now. Small. Afraid in a way that strips away the sharp edges I usually associate with her. Her face is free of make-up for once and I remember just how young she truly is. Just a few years older than Sienna and Elizabeth.
“Lorenzo,” she whispers.
I cross the room in three strides and take her hand withoutthinking. It’s cool, trembling slightly in mine. The sight of it punches something in my chest.
“How bad was it?” I ask quietly.
Her mother answers before Fran can. “They thought she was losing the baby. There was bleeding. Too much of it.” Her voice cracks despite her obvious effort to stay composed. “They managed to stop it, but she needs rest. No stress. No travel. No excitement.”
Her father watches me carefully, as if weighing whether I am the cause of that stress.
Fran swallows. “I was scared,” she admits. “I thought I was going to lose everything.”
