I play his game.
I tilt my head slightly, letting my expression soften into something amused and dismissive.
“Europe?” I repeat lightly, as if the thought barely merits consideration. “That’s a stretch.”
Federico shrugs, unbothered. “People run far when they’re frightened.”
“She wasn’t frightened,” I say smoothly. “She was emotional. There’s a difference.”
His gaze sharpens just a fraction.
“Still,” he murmurs, “Europe is very good for disappearing. New names. New papers. New lives.”
I chuckle under my breath, forcing a casual confidence I don’t feel. “If she managed that, then good for her. That takes resources.”
And help,a quiet voice in my head finishes.
Federico’s smile deepens. “Exactly.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and dangerous. I can feel the walls of the sacristy closing in, the weight of the church pressing down like judgment. Somewhere outside, the organ starts to play low, solemn notes meant to signal celebration.
I straighten my cuffs. “If that’s all,” I say, my tone cool and final, “I should be getting ready. Fran will be wondering where I am.”
For a moment, I think he’ll push. Say something else to twist the knife.
Instead, he steps back and inclines his head. “Of course. Today is about family.”
As I turn toward the door, my pulse finally breaks loose, pounding hard enough to shake my ribs. Because now I know two things with terrifying certainty. Elizabeth didn’t vanish on her own. And someone very close to me knows exactly where she went.
“Lorenzo,” Federico calls after me. “Don’t forget to open your gift.”
“Of course,” I reply smoothly.
He leaves with the box I brought for Fran tucked under his arm, already moving on to the next obligation. When the door shuts, the room feels smaller.
I stare at the box he left behind. White paper. Crisp edges. Perfect bow. I already don’t like it.
I open it anyway.
Inside is a baby’s dress—white, delicate, stitched with lace so fine it looks like it would dissolve if handled too roughly. Beneath it rests an ultrasound photo, the grainy black-and-white image unmistakable even at a glance.
My fingers curl around the edge of the box as I spot the folded note tucked beside it.
The next one will be a boy.
—Fran
My jaw locks. Notif. Notsomeday. Thenextone. It’s a statement and a claim.
The church bells begin to toll outside, distant but insistent, calling me forward whether I’m ready or not. I fold the note once, twice, until it’s a neat square, and slide it back into the box.
I close the lid.
By the time I step into the sanctuary, my face is composed. Calm. The Don in full control.
Snow filters through the stained-glass windows, casting soft light across polished pews and expectant faces. Half the city has come to witness this alliance.
Fran walks down the aisle, and people gasp when they see her designer dress. When she looks at me, there’s relief in her eyes making me think she doesn’t know the same information her father does. No, that kind of look only comes from true fear that I might not have shown up today.
