The first child had my eyes.

The second had my mouth.

The third had the small scar-shaped indentation in his left eyebrow that every Moretti man seemed to inherit.

But it was the fourth boy—the quiet one standing nearest the marble sink—who reached his left hand behind his neck and rubbed the same spot I had rubbed whenever I was nervous since I was five years old.

That was when I stopped breathing.

Four little boys stared at me beneath the soft lights of an expensive Back Bay restaurant bathroom.

Matching navy sweaters.

Khaki pants.

Dark hair.

Four identical six-year-old faces.

Four versions of mine.

One of them tilted his head.

“Mister?”

My hand tightened around the edge of the sink.

For fifteen years, I had sat across tables from politicians, businessmen, thieves, killers, and men who smiled while arranging someone else’s funeral.

None of them had frightened me.

These children did.

“How old are you?” I asked.

The boldest one grinned.

“Six.”

The room seemed to move beneath my feet.

Six.

Exactly six years earlier, there had been a woman named Elena Rossi.

The only woman I had ever considered destroying my entire future for.

The only woman I had ever loved.

And the woman who had disappeared from my life without saying goodbye.

Before I could ask another question, heels clicked in the hallway.

Then a woman’s voice called out.

“Boys? We need to go.”

Everything inside me went still.

I knew that voice.

Six years could not erase it.

Neither could whiskey.

Neither could anger.

Neither could the dozens of women my family had encouraged me to meet afterward.

Elena.

The four boys rushed past me.

“Mom!”

I stood frozen beside the mirror.

Through the half-open door, I caught a glimpse of her.

Chestnut hair falling over one shoulder.

Black wool coat.

The same profile I had once watched sleeping beside me in a tiny apartment in Cambridge while imagining a life I had never been brave enough to choose.

She turned.

Our eyes met.

The color vanished from her face.

For one long second, neither of us moved.

Then Elena whispered my name.

“Dominic?”

My hand automatically went toward the inside pocket of my navy jacket.

The diamond ring was still there.

In forty-five minutes, I was supposed to place it on another woman’s finger.

Instead, I was staring at the woman I had loved six years ago while four children wearing my face held her hands.

And suddenly the engagement ring felt like a piece of ice against my chest.

Elena moved first.

She placed herself between me and the boys.

It was subtle.

Protective.

Instinctive.

But I noticed.

That hurt more than I expected.