It rang. And rang.

Antonio frowned, the pixelated image on my screen showing his confusion.

“That’s… odd. He should have picked up.”

Chiara leaned into the frame, her smile serene. “He’s probably busy, Tony. You said yourself your father hates these new phones.”

Antonio’s frown eased. “Right. Yeah. You’re so thoughtful, Chiara.”

He turned his scowl back to me. “Last warning, Sofia. Use my family’s name like this again, and I’ll end this. For good.”

The threat, once a knife to my heart, now felt like a paper cut.

“End it, then. No church, no state. It’s just words, Antonio. Say them.”

He blinked. Stunned.

“You… you want to leave?”

“I want you to face reality. You don’t have a wife. You have a resource. And this resource is tapped out.”

I heard the sharp intake of his breath.

Chiara’s eyes narrowed. She kept her tone sweet. “Sofia, don’t be rash. We’ll talk when we’re back. Dinner, my treat. A peace offering.”

Usually, Antonio would interrupt, defending her from having to apologize to me.

This time, he was silent. He looked… nervous. His lips were pale.

“Chiara… maybe we should go back early. I’m tired.”

She jerked her head back. “What? You wanted to try the other slope tomorrow. What’s going on?”

He glanced at my image on his screen. “I’m just… tired. And my father’s birthday is coming up. The big one. I should be there.”

I didn’t wait to hear more. I ended the call.

Standing up, my elbow knocked a small, carved wooden box off the hall table. It was a pair of antique dueling pistols, replicas. A gift from Antonio years ago.

The one that fell was the smaller, feminine one. As I went to place it back, a sliver of light caught an inscription on the grip.

[For Chiara. All my love, A.]

My hand went cold. I picked up the matching pistol.

[Antonio. Forever.]

They weren’t a gift for us. They were a monument to them.

The tiny, detailed weapons seemed to mock me. All the excuses I’d been fabricating for him, for us, evaporated.

There was no saving this. There never had been.

I sat in the silent foyer for a long time. Then I called Gina.

“Pack all of Don Antonio’s personal effects. Have them sent to his father’s villa in Palermo.”

She was too well-trained to show surprise. “Immediately, signora.”

I threw myself into the funeral preparations. The mass, the security, the guest list of made men, rival bosses, and politicians.

…

Antonio raced from the airport, Chiara trailing behind him, bewildered.

“Tony, what is the rush? You’re acting strange.”

“My father’s birthday!” he snapped, the lie coming easily. “It’s important.”

They arrived at the compound. The grand gates were open, but the house felt still. Empty.

“Sofia!” Antonio bellowed, storming inside. “Where is she? My father’s birthday is this week! Why isn’t anything prepared?”

Gina appeared, her face carefully blank.

“Signor Antonio. Your… the Signora Sofia is not here.”

“Where is she? Fetch her!”

Gina didn’t flinch. “She is at the funeral, sir.”

“What funeral?” he sneered. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Your father’s funeral, sir. Don Vittorio. He passed four days ago. The signora has been handling everything.”

The color drained from Antonio’s face.