I gripped the bag on my shoulder until my fingers went numb. The weight inside felt heavier than bone, heavier than guilt.
"Matteo's—"
I never finished.
A small body slammed into me and I crashed onto the marble floor. My wrist scraped hard and the urn nearly slipped out of the bag. I caught it at the last second and pulled it to my chest.
"Watch it!" I snapped.
It was Nico. Gianna's precious boy. Fresh from the hospital after nothing more than a stomach ache. His little face twisted with an arrogance he learned from the man behind him.
"You watch it, idiot!" he shouted back. "Why are you even here?"
Lucian's voice cracked like a whip. "That's enough, Nico." Then he turned on me. "Serafina, he's a child. Do not start a scene."
Gianna drifted forward with her soft steps and softer lies. She placed her hand on Lucian's chest, her fingertips grazing his collarbone as if soothing an animal only she could calm.
"Please don't be upset," she murmured. "This is my fault again. Nico and I can go."
Lucian clenched his jaw, eyes cold. He pointed straight at me. "You caused this. Not her."
Something inside me broke further, deeper, into a place I did not think existed. They stood there like a family. The Don, the woman, the boy. Three people who belonged in this house. I was the intruder who dared to return with ashes.
Nico lunged at my bag again, grabbing at the zipper.
"I am hungry. Why are you hugging it? Is there food in here?"
The urn slipped. It hit the floor with a loud thud that punched the air out of my lungs.
"No. No. Do not touch that!"
Nico crouched, reaching for it with his dirty little hands. "What is it? I want it."
I shoved him away. Hard. I did not care. Not anymore. I had already lost everything that mattered.
Lucian roared, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" His face twisted with fury. "He was just discharged. He is sick. And you dare lay a hand on him?"
Nico screamed and clawed at me, yanking my hair until tears blurred my vision.
"It's Matteo's," I choked out. "It's… my son's."
Gianna tugged Lucian back gently, her voice honey sweet. Her fingers found her collarbone again, lingering there. "Let it go. If it belongs to Matteo, then Nico should not touch it."
Lucian scoffed. "This is my house. I decide who touches what."
I hugged the urn to my chest, pressing it so tightly my ribs hurt, and walked away without a word.
To him, I must have looked like I was sulking. A dramatic wife playing victim. I heard his snort behind me. His muttered insult. Then the sound of him escorting Gianna and Nico out through the compound's front hall like a Don walking his treasured guests past the soldiers who lined the entrance without a word.
That night, in the silence of the bedroom he no longer entered, I packed my clothes. I filled out the dissolution papers with hands that would not stop trembling. I placed Matteo's urn beside me on the bed and stared at it until the sun began to rise.
...
That night, Matteo found me again.
In the dream he wandered through a long corridor made of glass. No shadows. No reflections. He moved barefoot, steps soft, tremors in his shoulders. Tears streaked down his cheeks as he clutched his stomach in pain.
He kept calling for him.
"Dad? Daddy? Where are you?"
Not me. Never me. He wanted Lucian. He always wanted Lucian.
My heart cracked inside the dream. I ran after him, calling his name, begging him to stop. But no matter how fast I moved he drifted further away, small hands slipping like mist.
I fell to my knees and sobbed.
"I'm sorry, baby. I am so sorry. I should've protected you. I should've never left you alone."
I repeated it until my throat went raw.
...
When I woke up, I was already on the floor beside the bed. My hands were clasped in prayer even though I did not remember kneeling. I prayed that wherever my son was, he did not hurt anymore. That death gave him the peace life refused him.
The compound around me stayed silent. Lucian's empire rose on blood and tribute, but it felt like the loneliest place on earth. Beautiful walls. Beautiful floors. Beautiful emptiness. Soldiers posted at every gate, surveillance in every corridor, and not one living soul who would have noticed if I had stopped breathing in the night. It had never been a home.
Then the memories returned.
The shift in Lucian. The slow disappearance of affection. The way Gianna's return made him colder than a knife blade against my throat.
He compared them often.
"Nico is a strong kid," he said once, pouring whiskey in the study where he held his sit-downs, "He has presence. He's respectful. He's healthy."
Unlike Matteo. Unspoken but sharp enough to cut.
Only weeks before Matteo fell ill, Lucian looked me dead in the eye and said,
"Sometimes I wonder if that boy's even mine. If he is, he's not fit to inherit anything I built. Too fragile. Always sick. A weak bloodline slows an empire."
I remember standing there unable to breathe.
I spent years breaking myself into shapes he might love. Softer. Smarter. More loyal. More obedient. But I never thought he'd strip his love from our son.
Matteo adored him. Worshipped him. He used to show Lucian every drawing he made. Every tiny medal made out of foil and hope. But Lucian never looked.
My son died without his father's face in the room. Without his father's voice. Without the man he worshipped lifting even a finger.
I heard footsteps outside the room. Unsteady. Drunken. Muffled voices followed.
I cracked the door open and saw Lucian leaning heavily against Gianna. His arm wrapped around her waist while she held him up. One of the night soldiers stood at the far end of the hallway, face blank, eyes forward, trained to see nothing.
"Lucian," she whispered, stroking his jaw, "are you sure you want to check her room? It is late. She might still be awake."
Lucian chuckled.
"Why the hell would I go to her? She was a bitch to Nico."
Gianna led him toward her room. She did not even bother closing the door fully. I heard everything. Her soft moans. His low groans. The dull thud of the bed against the wall.
I did not move. I did not cry. I folded my hands in my lap like a quiet ghost and stared at the blank wall until the sun rose.
...
In the morning, I prepared hangover soup the way I always did. The kitchen smelled warm even if I did not feel warmth anymore. Lucian walked in, rubbing his forehead. The cook had already left the espresso on the counter and disappeared, the way everyone in this house disappeared when the Don entered a room.
He sat down and avoided my eyes.
"I came home real late," he muttered. "Didn't want to disturb you, so I slept in the guest room."
I nodded. "Alright."
He relaxed instantly. He thought I was still the obedient wife. The gentle one. The silent one who never questioned anything.
Then I slid a document across the table.
The dissolution papers.
