Then Vincenzo finally noticed me standing there. His hand dropped from Lena’s waist. His expression shifted slightly—guilt, maybe. Or annoyance.
“You should’ve told me you were coming back,” he said flatly. “I would’ve sent someone.”
He didn’t remember the night I begged him for help after being stranded near his private docks. I had called him terrified because men were following me. He told me he was busy. When I asked for guards, he said they weren’t drivers. That if I kept acting helpless, he’d finalize the divorce himself.
That night, I walked alone and nearly got dragged into a van. When I called him again shaking, he told me I was stupid for walking alone and asked what I expected.
But when Lena needed anything—he sent cars, guards… himself.
I held the urn tighter.
“It’s fine,” I said quietly.
He stared at me for a long moment. Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
Then he asked, almost absentmindedly—
“Did Gabriel recover?”
I held the bag on my shoulder so tightly my fingers started to lose feeling. Whatever was inside it felt heavier than anything physical—heavier than grief, heavier than blame, heavier than everything I had survived so far.
“Gabriel’s—”