“Yes.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Of course you do.”
I stepped closer.
“Elena, listen to me. Whatever else you believe about Dominic Moretti, believe this: I would never threaten a pregnant woman. I would never threaten you. And I would never tell you to destroy my child.”
Her eyes trembled.
For the first time, uncertainty appeared.
Only for a moment.
Then it vanished.
“You had six years.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I called.”
“No calls reached me.”
“I wrote.”
“No letters reached me.”
“I went to your office.”
“When?”
“Three weeks after those messages.”
My skin prickled.
“What happened?”
Elena looked toward the lobby.
“A man named Carlo met me downstairs.”
My heart stopped.
Carlo Vitale had been my father’s chief of security.
He had died two years ago.
“What did he say?”
“That you didn’t want to see me.”
I closed my eyes.
“When did you leave Boston?”
“That night.”
“And where did you go?”
“Providence first. Then Portland.”
“You raised four children alone?”
Something fierce entered her face.
“I survived.”
The words landed exactly where they were meant to.
She had survived.
Without me.
Because someone had made her believe survival required escaping me.
I slowly reached inside my jacket.
Elena stiffened again.
I removed the ring box.
Looked at it.
Then closed my fist around it.
She followed my eyes.
“You’re getting married?”
“I was supposed to propose tonight.”
Her expression became unreadable.
“Then you should go.”
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“You think I’m walking into a conservatory and proposing marriage after discovering four sons in a restaurant bathroom?”
“They don’t know you.”
“Then maybe I should start fixing that.”
Fear flashed through her.
“No.”
“Elena—”
“No, Dominic.”
“They are my children.”
“And you are a Moretti.”
There it was.
Not hatred.
Not even anger.
Fear.
She lowered her voice.
“I built a quiet life for them. Soccer practice. Pancakes on Sundays. Lost teeth under pillows. School plays. Stupid cartoons at six in the morning. They don’t know men with guns standing outside houses. They don’t know armored cars. They don’t know how to check whether they’re being followed.”
Her voice cracked.
“And I want to keep it that way.”
I stared at her.
For years, I had convinced myself the Moretti name meant strength.
Watching Elena tremble, I understood something else.
Sometimes power was simply fear with expensive tailoring.
I didn’t propose that night.
I went to the conservatory anyway.
My family had already gathered beneath the glass ceiling overlooking the Charles River.
Candles flickered along white tables.
A quartet played near the windows.
Champagne waited in silver buckets.
My mother wore black silk.
My uncle Matteo stood near the fireplace.
And Sloane Barrett waited beneath an arch covered in pale roses.
