I dragged the cursor to the last photograph.

The date stamp put it a few months back. Some private clinic, the kind no Family name was ever printed on.

Vittoria Volpe and Lorenzo Marchetti, wrapped around each other, beaming.

Behind them, the banner on the wall stood out in bold letters.

"Congratulations—you're about to become a father!"

Looking at it, my heart dropped into nothing.

That day, Lorenzo had said he was meeting an associate, a sit-down he couldn't bring me to. I'd had nothing to do, so I offered to come along.

He'd laughed me off. The man was a lecher, he said, the kind who talked business only when no wife was watching.

If I tagged along, the deal would almost certainly fall through.

I believed him.

Only now did I understand. There was no associate, no sit-down. He'd had an appointment with Vittoria, to seed the false heir into her body.

I closed the laptop and walked out of the study.

I stood on the balcony in the cold wind the whole night. Below the estate walls, the soldier at the gate did not move from his post, his shadow long against the gravel. He would have killed for me on Lorenzo's word. None of it had ever been mine.

When the sky paled at the edge, I finally made my decision.

This alliance that looked so perfect from the outside—I didn't want it.

And Lorenzo Marchetti, I didn't want him either.

After we got up, Lorenzo reminded me while he dressed.

"Elena, don't forget the family sits down together tonight."

"My mother and father have been planning this dinner for weeks."

"Whatever you do, don't be late."

I sat on the couch and said nothing.

Before he left, he smoothed the lapel of his jacket with a single downward stroke, then kissed my forehead.

"I've got a few things to handle at the club. Come by this afternoon and we'll go home together."

"And I've got a surprise waiting for you. Make sure you sign for it yourself."

Once Lorenzo was gone, I started packing.

At noon, his surprise arrived, carried in by a soldier who set it down with the care men in this world reserve for things that might be wired to explode.

The newest Patek Philippe ladies' watch, along with a lavish custom lunch from the Family's own hotel kitchen.

"My woman gets spoiled by me. That's just how it is."

In seven years of this union, it was the line Lorenzo had said to me most.

Looking at the watch resting quietly in its beautiful box, something in me kept curdling, swelling, aching.

I lifted my eyes to the huge wedding portrait on the wall, the betrothal-pact sealed before both bloodlines.

In the photo, Lorenzo leaned into my arms, his face full of happiness.

But deep in his eyes, there was always a trace of melancholy that wouldn't lift.

I used to mistake it for the weight a Don carried, taking a bride to bind two families.

Only now did I understand. It was the grief of a man who hadn't been able to take the woman he loved.

I made myself steady, then called the only consigliere I trusted apart from the Family and told him to draw up the papers to sever the blood-pact.

I'd booked passage off the coast for today, but in the end I pushed it to tomorrow.

Because I'd promised Lorenzo I'd come home with him tonight for the family dinner.

A person should keep their word. My father taught me that.

The moment I thought of my father, my heart felt clamped in some invisible hand, aching dully. My thumb found the cold band of his signet ring and pressed the crest hard into my palm, the only inheritance my enemies had never managed to steal.

My mother died on a stretch of dark road before I was old enough to understand any of it.

Don Vincenzo Castellano raised me alone.

No matter how the territory bled, how heavy the nights, he never once thought of taking another wife.

Because he'd given his word. This life, he would love only my mother, and never let his heart turn away.

That afternoon, I arrived at the Marchetti club, the polished front that sat over everything the Family truly ran.

The moment I stepped through the doors, the familiar whispering started up among the associates.

"Elena's here to see the Don again."

"They're so in love, honestly."

"Of course. There was a feature once. Elena and the Don, named one of the ten couples every bloodline in the Harbor District envied."

"Promised to each other since childhood. That's why seven years in, they're still so good together."

"He runs everything, she's beautiful. Their child's going to be golden."

"The three of them together. Now that's the real picture of a made life."

"Madonna. We're all women here. How come I never got luck like Elena's?"

"Look at the watch on her wrist. Newest Patek Philippe. Worth six figures, easy."

"That's the Don's doing, no question. They say Marchetti puts a new watch on his wife's wrist every year, like clockwork."

"Elena Castellano must have saved a saint's life in another world to be claimed by a man like Don Marchetti."

"Don't sell her short. Her blood was no small thing. Her father ran the whole Harbor District before he went."

"A pity he died so young. They say it was rage that put him in the ground. Otherwise the old Don Castellano would still be the name every man in the Harbor District feared."

…

I stopped just outside the door of his study.

Lorenzo's voice carried through the wood, sharp with an anger he rarely let surface.

"I ordered two watches. One standard, one of the limited pieces."

"The standard one has already come. And now you stand there and tell me to wait on the other?"

"Is that how you do business with a man like me?"

"I don't want excuses. If that watch isn't in my hands within the hour, you'll answer for it. And you won't like the form the question takes."

So he had bought two watches.

I stood in the corridor a few minutes longer, then pushed the door open and walked in.

The moment his eyes found me, the cold fell away from his face and a smile rose in its place.

"Elena, you're here."

"Give me a moment, tesoro. Let me finish with these papers and I'm yours."

I told him there was no rush, that we had time enough.

Then I sat on the leather couch, scrolling through my phone, waiting in silence.

Lorenzo was a striking thing when he worked, all focus and unhurried command, the kind of stillness that made grown soldiers wait their turn to speak.

For a hazy moment, I thought I caught something of my father in him.

It wasn't strange, really. Both of them were men born to sit at the head of a table while others held their breath.

Not half an hour later, my phone buzzed with a notification.

I opened it. Vittoria had posted to her feed.

Nine photos, every one of them a close-up of the watch riding her wrist.

"The finest birthday gift I've ever been given."

"They say each new year outshines the last. I say having you outshines everything."

The comments came fast.

"Isn't that the Patek Philippe that only just dropped?"

"Dio, that's the limited diamond-set piece. Worth more than thirty-seven million."

"So jealous."

"No need to guess whose hand gave her that."

"My lips are sealed. I only wish two people in love their happy ending."

I kept scrolling, searching for Lorenzo's name in the comments. It wasn't there.

I glanced up. He was still bent over his work, his phone lying quiet at his elbow.

That was when it settled in me. When Vittoria posted this, she had almost certainly blocked him from ever seeing it.

Something bitter pulled at the corner of my mouth.

As far back as I could remember, today was the first time I had ever seen Lorenzo that furious.

And it had all been over a watch.

At last he finished, and we drove to the Marchetti estate together.

On the way, I closed my eyes and pretended to drift off.

His phone rang.

He turned to study my face, decided I was asleep, and only then answered.

"Lorenzo, thank you for such an expensive watch."

The voice through his earpiece was faint, but I sat close enough to catch every word.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"It's only a little over thirty million. Hardly expensive."

"As long as it pleases you."

Vittoria sounded touched. "All these years, you've given me so much."

"And every gift more precious than the last."

"It troubles me. If Elena ever found out, she'd be hurt."

"I don't want the two of you set against each other because of me."

He gave a calm, low laugh. "Don't worry yourself. She won't find out."

"And I bought one for her too."

"Not as fine as yours, of course."

Vittoria dropped her voice to a whisper. "Lorenzo, tonight. Could you spend it with me?"

Lorenzo hesitated for a few seconds before answering, his voice full of apology. "I'm sorry, Vittoria. Tonight is the holiday, when every famiglia sits at the same table. I already gave my parents my word I'd bring Elena to spend it with them."

"All right. Buon Natale to you all, then."

There was such a deep loneliness in Vittoria's voice that something in Lorenzo's eyes softened with pain.

"Vittoria," he said gently, "I give you my word. Next year I'll be at your side for your birthday."

"And our daughter will be right there beside you too, by then."

Watching the happiness spread across his face, I felt my eyes sting, and my brow twitched before I could stop it.

Then a cry came through the earpiece, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

Lorenzo went tense. "Vittoria, what happened?"

"I slipped in the snow. I'm hurt."

"Is it bad?"

"It's... it's not too bad."

"Tell me where you are. I'm coming right now."

Vittoria made a show of refusing. "There's no need, Lorenzo. I can have one of my men take me to a doctor myself."

"I won't ruin the holiday over something this small."

His brow furrowed, and his voice left no room for argument, the same flat command a Don uses when an order has already been given. "Tell me where you are."

Once he had the answer he wanted, he ended the call, pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road, and woke me.

"Elena, my consigliere just called. There's a sit-down. Urgent."

"Sorry. I have to head back."

"Can you arrange a ride for yourself?"

"Or I can have one of the soldiers come for you."

I lifted my head and looked out the window. Everything beyond the glass was pitch black, snow coming down in thick, heavy flakes.

We were far past the edge of the District, and it was the night of the holiday. Forget a car for hire, there wasn't another set of headlights anywhere on the road.

I didn't want to agree, but I was pushed out of the car anyway.

Lorenzo hit the gas, and the car shot off into the distance.

Quick. Final.

He was so worried about Vittoria he couldn't even be bothered to explain.

I took out my phone and found the signal almost gone. None of the apps would even open.

There was nothing to do but pull my coat tighter, lower my head against the wind and snow, and start walking, one uneven step after another.

More than two hours later, shaking with cold, I finally reached the gates of the Marchetti estate.

Through the iron railings I could see the lights blazing inside, laughter drifting out into the night.

A soldier on the gate spotted me and hurried to open it.

"Signora, why are you so late?"

I didn't explain. I just asked, "Lorenzo. Is he already here?"

"The young Don arrived a long while ago. With Miss Volpe."

The man chose the words carefully.

He knew the old story, from years back. How Marco Rosso had shattered the betrothal-pact between our bloodlines to take Vittoria instead, how the shame of it had driven my father to his grave. The whole Harbor District had whispered of it at the time, soldier to soldier, table to table.

He was afraid of cutting me open again.

A bitter taste rose in me.

Even a soldier on the gate knew enough to tread lightly around it. Lorenzo hadn't spared a single thought for how I felt.

In the front room, Vittoria sat on the sofa pressed close against Lorenzo, the two of them talking and laughing low. The moment they saw me, they pulled apart.

"Elena, you finally made it."

"I was worried sick."

"Why was your phone dead every time the soldier called?"

I said it flatly. "It died."

In cold more than ten below, a phone's battery didn't last long out on an open road.

"I'm sorry, Elena. This is all my fault."

Seeing me covered in snow, Lorenzo put on a guilty face. He smoothed the lapel of his jacket with a single downward stroke, took my hand, and sat me down on the sofa.

Salvatore and Carmela Marchetti came over too, fussing over me, scolding their son. How could he leave his wife alone out on a road like that, on a night like this?