When I finally understood that Lorenzo Moretti would never let go of Gianna Bellandi, I didn't cry or rage. I didn't ask him one more time which of us he actually loved.
I simply began teaching our seven-year-old son to call him something new.
From "Papà" to "Uncle Lorenzo."
The first time was when our son was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis.
The little thing was burning hot all over, an IV needle taped into the back of his hand, the pain shaking tears loose one by one.
Lorenzo hadn't been at the bedside ten minutes before Gianna's call came through.
"Lorenzo, Nico Everett's running a fever, he won't stop crying for you, I really don't know what to do anymore…"
The voice on the line was frantic, sobbing, and the worry on Lorenzo's face turned in an instant toward someone else.
He got up in a hurry, left behind a single "I have to step out," and walked out of the room without looking back. Two of his soldiers peeled off the wall to follow him, soundless on the polished floor.
Our son reached out a small hand to catch him, and closed it on empty air.
I held his cold little hand and said quietly,
"Say goodbye to Uncle Lorenzo."
That day, eyes rimmed red, he called him "Uncle Lorenzo" for the first time.
The second time was his seventh birthday.
For the trip he'd been waiting for, he'd started counting down on the calendar half a month early, circling one day at a time.
The night before we were supposed to leave, he was too excited to sleep, hugging his little backpack and checking again and again that he hadn't forgotten anything.
But just as we were about to go, Gianna called again.
She said through her tears that Nico envied other kids who had a father with them, that he was throwing a fit and refusing to eat.
Lorenzo was silent for a long while. In the end he picked up his coat anyway. His hand drifted, the way it always did when guilt was winning, to the old scar beneath his collarbone.
The light in our son's eyes dimmed, little by little.
I didn't try to stop him. I just handed our son the tablet.
"Cancel Uncle Lorenzo's plane ticket."
The little thing took it with his head down and pressed the refund button without a word.
Start to finish, no crying, no fuss.
Later, out of guilt, I think.
Lorenzo did the rare thing and turned down a sit-down that had kept the heads of three Families waiting, insisting on coming with us to have a family portrait taken.
Our son was happy for a whole week.
He picked out his favorite little suit specially, and asked me every day when we were going to take the photos.
But the car had barely stopped at the studio door when Gianna's call came, right on time.
"Lorenzo, the other kids made fun of Nico for not having a father, and now he won't stop crying for you…"
The familiar voice. The familiar reason.
Lorenzo gripped his phone, and the struggle surfaced on his face again. Two fingers found the scar through his shirt.
He looked at our son as if he wanted to explain something, or maybe wanted to stay.
But before he could get a word out, our son had already given him a little wave.
"It's fine, Uncle Lorenzo."
The little thing's voice was soft, but so calm it ached to hear.
"You go."
"It's actually fine if you're not in the family photo."
In that instant, Lorenzo froze where he stood.
He had probably finally realized that our son had really changed what he called him.
But what he didn't know was that from the day he turned and walked away for Gianna and her boy, again and again, what our son lost was never his company. It was the last bit of hope he had in his father.
Day twenty-seven of the dissolution of the alliance.
Our son had finally stopped waiting for his papà.
…
When that "Uncle Lorenzo" left our son's mouth, the whole hallway went quiet. Even the soldier posted by the door went very still, eyes lowered, as if he hadn't heard a thing.
Lorenzo and I both froze in place.
The truth was, today marked the twenty-seventh day since I'd discovered that his heart had drifted completely away from this family.
In those twenty-seven days, every time Lorenzo abandoned us for Gianna and her boy, I would hold our son late at night and quietly teach him to change what he called his father.
"From now on, call him Uncle Lorenzo."
I wasn't doing it out of spite.
I only wanted to tell myself, and to tell our son,
to stop pinning his hopes on a person who no longer belonged to this family.
But our son was only seven.
Lorenzo had once been the man he admired most.
The father he was proudest of, the don whose name he whispered like other boys whispered the names of saints, the hero he bragged about to everyone.
Every time I asked him to change what he called his father, he would shake his head, eyes going red.
Sometimes his little face would flush all the way crimson, and still he wouldn't say those two words.
But today, he said it on his own.
No hurt, no tears.
His tone as calm as if he were addressing the most ordinary of strangers.
Meeting Lorenzo's disbelieving gaze, our son took my hand and spoke, polite and distant.
"Uncle Lorenzo, you go take care of your things."
"Mamma, our appointment's almost here. Let's not keep the photographer waiting."
With that, he led me straight toward the studio. His other hand was wrapped tight around the little toy car he carried, pressed to his chest.
From start to finish, he never looked back at Lorenzo again.
And this shoot was supposed to be a family portrait of the three of us.
A feature for the kind of glossy magazine that opened doors no soldier ever could, a rare bit of light to set against everything the Moretti name kept in the dark.
To make up for missing our son's birthday, Lorenzo had cleared his own calendar and promised he would be there to finish the shoot with us.
The day he made that promise, our son was so happy he didn't sleep all night.
He even drew red circles on the wall calendar in his room, half a month of them.
Every night before bed, he would carefully cross off one day.
Counting on his fingers, waiting for his father to keep his word.
But now, when that hope had turned to disappointment,
the child who had once wanted his father's love most of all had been the first to learn how to give it up.
Walking behind him, I felt as if something had been torn open in my chest, the pain so sharp I could barely breathe.
What finally made me see Lorenzo clearly was an equestrian club pass from half a month ago.
That day, while I was tidying his suit, an invitation to a private equestrian club fell out of his pocket.
On his seventh birthday, our son's biggest wish had been for his father to take him riding, just once.
But Lorenzo had refused without a second thought.
He said the alliance with the Eastern Families was at a critical stage, that one wrong move would cost the famiglia everything, and he couldn't get away.
Our son had lowered his head, disappointed, and still said, like the good boy he was,
"It's okay. Papà's work is more important."
Yet only three days later, I saw that very club on Gianna's social media.
A members-only private club, the kind that kept its gates shut to anyone without the right name.
In the photos, Lorenzo in casual riding clothes, laughing, Gianna's son hoisted up on his shoulders.
Gianna on his arm, leaning into him, the smile on her face as happy as any family of three.
The caption was a single line:
【The favorite equestrian club, of course you come with the best dad.】
In that moment, I found it absurd, almost funny.
So it turned out the no time he'd spoken of only meant no time for his own son.
So it turned out the alliance he'd named couldn't outweigh a single "I want to go" from Gianna.
Gianna was his first love.
Her brother had been one of his soldiers, dead years ago, gunned down taking the bullet meant for Lorenzo.
All these years, Lorenzo had treated caring for the two of them as a blood debt.
But a debt and favoritism have never been the same thing.
That night, we had the worst fight of our entire marriage.
For the first time, I asked to dissolve the union.
Lorenzo reacted as if he'd heard some absurd joke.
He frowned, his tone looking down at me from above:
"Adriana Castellano, can't you stop being so unreasonable?"
"I look after them only because I owe them."
"Do you really have to make everything this complicated?"
He was always like this.
Used to controlling everything, the way a don controls a room without raising his voice.
Used to covering every bit of favoritism with one word: "debt."
And used to making me give way, time after time.
But that day, I saw our son hiding behind the sofa.
His small body curled into a ball.
Shaking, frightened by our shouting.
In that instant, I suddenly understood.
If I kept giving way, what would be destroyed wasn't only my marriage.
It was the last hope our son had in his father.
So I didn't argue anymore.
Instead, I tried a different way.
I got Lorenzo to sign a thirty-day dissolution agreement.
If his heart had long since left this family,
then our son and I had to learn to let go too.
