"I saw how serious and quiet you've been ever since we arrived. I thought something was wrong with the baby."
Her unintentional comment made Dominic pause.
An uncontrollable image surfaced in his mind: standing amidst roaring flames, Seraphina stared back at him with eyes as cold as ice.
Frowning, he pulled out his phone and reopened his messages. There was still no reply. Not even a word from her.
It annoyed him. No. It infuriated him.
After all, no matter how cold or neglectful he'd been in the past, Seraphina had always come when he called. Always giving in. The way people in this world always answered when the Don summoned them.
But now? Now she had the nerve to ignore him?
He let out a bitter, humorless laugh. The sound was quiet enough that the two soldiers stationed outside the clinic door exchanged a glance but said nothing.
Silently, he escorted Daniela out of the physician's wing, took her to a quiet restaurant the Family owned on Mulberry Street, made sure she got home safely with a driver and an armed escort, and only then headed to the social club.
The moment he stepped through the back entrance, Marco Benedetti fell into step beside him.
"Boss. Don Salvatore has returned to the country. He's called an emergency sit-down with all the Capos in the back room. They're waiting."
Without much reaction, Dominic turned and began walking toward the meeting room. His silver Zippo appeared in his hand, turning end over end between his fingers in that slow, meditative rhythm.
As he walked, he instructed casually, "Buy a few of the latest luxury handbags and some jewelry. The high-end pieces."
Marco nodded, checking his watch with a brief, mechanical glance before giving a single nod.
"Of course, Boss. I'll have someone deliver them to Miss Ferraro's residence right away."
Dominic stopped walking. The lighter went still. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Send them to the old Rossetti estate."
In his mind, after leaving the compound, Seraphina couldn't possibly have anywhere else to stay except the Rossetti family home. That crumbling monument to a name that no longer carried weight in any room that mattered.
One week later, late at night.
After finally wrapping up a territorial negotiation that had dragged on for days, Dominic returned to the Valente compound.
He walked into the living room, past the two soldiers posted at the foyer who straightened as he passed, only to see a slender, graceful figure curled up on the sofa in a silk nightgown, like a little shrimp.
"Seraphina, how many times have I told you, when I'm done working, I'll come back. There's no need for you to keep—"
His voice trailed off as he got closer and realized it wasn't Seraphina.
It was Daniela.
His mocking tone immediately vanished. The warmth drained from his face like water through a crack in stone.
Being stared at with such cold indifference, Daniela shivered. She looked pitiful and wronged, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her hand moved to her stomach again, settling there with the timing of someone who had rehearsed the gesture a thousand times.
"Dominic... Seraphina hasn't returned for days."
"I've sent her so many apology texts, but she hasn't responded to a single one."
"Maybe... maybe I should move out?"
Watching her on the verge of tears again, Dominic frowned and pulled her into his arms.
He placed a light, perfunctory kiss on her forehead. "Don't think too much. Take care of your health."
"Whether Seraphina likes it or not, from now on, this will be your home and our child's."
Half an hour after making that promise, Dominic stood alone on the open-air balcony of the compound's top floor, wrapped in a silk robe, quietly smoking a cigarette. Below him, the city sprawled out in cold light, and somewhere beyond the property line, a car idled with its headlights off. One of his own, keeping watch. There was always someone keeping watch.
He hadn't smoked in a long time.
But tonight, for some reason... he couldn't resist.
On impulse, he opened his contacts and scrolled all the way to the bottom. Seraphina's number was still there. The name sat on his screen like an accusation.
His thumb hovered over the call button for a long time.
After two cigarettes, he didn't dial. Instead, he sent a message.
[Seraphina, tomorrow is Grandpa's 80th birthday. I suggest you don't try any stunts at the celebration. Don't cause trouble for Daniela or her baby.]
He stared at the screen for a full minute after sending it. No typing indicator appeared. No read receipt. Nothing. He locked the phone and set it face-down on the railing, then lit a third cigarette with the Zippo, the flame catching in the wind before holding steady.
