“She doesn’t strike me as unstable,” I say carefully.
Enzo studies me for half a second too long.
“No,” he agrees. “She doesn’t.”
Silence stretches between us. Not tense. Just… weighted.
“Marco thinks it helps his case,” Enzo adds. “And it does. Judges like narratives. A family trying.”
“A family,” I repeat.
Enzo smiles. “That’s the story.”
Something cold shifts in my stomach. I think of the courtroom. The way she froze when she saw me. The terror that flashed across her face. I think of Marco’s hands folded neatly in front of him as he talked abouthisson.
“The child isn’t a prop.”
Enzo laughs softly, like I’ve made a dry joke. “Of course not,” he replies. “I didn’t mean…” He waves a hand. “I’m just saying, kids are… leverage in our world. Whether we like it or not.”
The word lands wrong.
Leverage.
It echoes against something raw in my chest.
I turn fully now. “The child is not leverage.”
Enzo holds my gaze without flinching. “No,” he says agreeably. “You’re right. Poor choice of words.” A pause. “But perception matters,” he finishes. “And Marco needs all the help he can get.”
The moment passes. Or it appears to. Enzo moves on, already checking something else on his tablet, the conversation neatly closed like a file drawer.
I do not reopen it. Instead, my mind is already elsewhere. On her. On the way her shoulders lifted like she was bracing for a blow that never came. On the way she wouldn’t look at me again, as if eye contact would detonate something she couldn’t afford to touch.
On the math that won’t stop running in the background of my thoughts.
Three years old. The timing fits too well to ignore. The court kept the child separate. I haven’t seen him. That absence is a weight I carry everywhere now. A pressure behind my eyes.
If the child is mine…
I stop the thought before it completes.
Speculation without data is how men lose control.
I return to the mirror. The tuxedo is laid out like armor. Tailored. Precise. Respectability cut into fabric. I slide into it piece by piece, the motions automatic. White shirt. Cufflinks. Jacket. The family ring waits on the table. I don’t put it on yet. I adjust my tie, fingers steady, and catch myself touching my ear. I force my hand down.
Enzo notices. He always does.
“Nerves?” he asks lightly.
“No,” I say. “Anticipation.”
He smiles. “Same thing sometimes.”
Maybe.
I think about Marco. He cannot know. Not about the flight. Not about the hotel. Not about the night that has haunted me in quiet moments. If he connects those dots, he will weaponize them. He always does.
And if the child is mine, that truth cannot surface here. Not tonight. Not in a room full of men who understand bloodlines better than they understand love.
