The next morning, for once, Lorenzo didn't have his driver take him to the social club to sit at the head of the standing meet. He came back early to the estate by the water instead.
The moment he pushed open the door to the dressing room, his steps stopped dead.
Four silver suitcases stood in a neat row against the wall, as if announcing something in silence.
He stared at them for a few seconds, his brow knotting without his meaning it to.
"It's just a trip to clear your head. You need to bring all this?"
There was an edge of panic in his voice that he didn't even notice himself.
I was crouched in front of our son, fixing his shirt collar, and I didn't look up.
"Where we're going is a little far. We might stay a while."
His expression shifted slightly, and he looked at the boy on instinct.
Matteo nodded quietly.
Only then did the tension in him ease a little.
Then, as if he'd prepared something on purpose, he took three gold-embossed VIP passes from the inside of his jacket.
The sunlight caught the cards and threw off a dazzling shine.
"Adriana."
"Matteo's been wanting to go to the club for a while now. That's my fault. I never made the time."
"I called off this morning's sit-down. I had one of my men pull private passes for us."
He crouched down and set the passes in front of the boy.
"The three of us are going right now."
"Today Papà's going to ride with you."
His voice was gentle, a rare thing.
There was even a coaxing note in it, as if he wanted to please.
For a moment I lost my focus.
Matteo had wanted to go to the equestrian club nearly a month ago.
So it turned out he hadn't forgotten.
He'd only thought to make it up to him now.
Thinking of the message last night, I suddenly understood.
This making-up wasn't because he'd finally remembered his son's wish.
It was because he felt guilty.
Because of that line, "I wanted to wait and finish building the model with Papà."
So he'd started trying to fix it.
That was all.
I said nothing.
But Matteo's eyes lit up.
He pressed his lips together and asked softly,
"Really?"
"Papà's taking me riding today?"
It was a look of hope I hadn't seen on his face in a long time.
He was still just a child, after all.
Even after being let down again and again.
The moment his father reached out even a little, he still couldn't help wanting to lean in.
Something in my chest ached.
I'd just been about to agree when I saw Lorenzo's expression turn a little awkward.
He gave a light cough.
As if weighing his words.
"But…"
The smile in Matteo's eyes stalled.
"If we go to the club today, you two have to promise me one thing."
"What thing?"
I said it flatly.
Lorenzo avoided my eyes. His hand drifted, two fingers resting against the old scar beneath his collarbone. His voice dropped, clearly.
"Gianna knows we've set the family portrait for tomorrow."
"She's worried Nico will be upset when he finds out, and that he'll act out again."
"So I was thinking…"
"What if we pushed the family portrait back?"
"There'll be plenty of chances later anyway."
The air went still in an instant.
The smile on Matteo's face faded, bit by bit.
The eyes that had just lit up dimmed, bit by bit.
So the club was real.
Riding with him was real too.
But the price of all of it was giving up what was his, again.
Matteo slowly lowered his head.
Both small hands clenched tight around the hem of his shirt.
After a long moment, he gave a soft "Oh."
The sound was so faint it was almost impossible to hear.
But Lorenzo let out a breath, as if he'd finally settled a debt.
He didn't even notice the boy's disappointment.
He went on explaining, patiently, his fingers still pressed to the scar,
"A family portrait can be taken anytime."
"There'll be lots of chances later."
"But Nico's different. He's never had a father, so he's a sensitive boy."
"Son, you can understand that, can't you?"
It suddenly struck me as faintly absurd.
Because even now, in this moment.
He still thought he was being reasonable.
He'd never once stopped to think.
That his own son was also only a seven-year-old child.
And that after tomorrow.
There would never be a chance to take that so-called family portrait again.
Neither Matteo nor I said a word.
Neither of us called it out.
I just looked at him, calm.
And turned the empty finger where a ring no longer sat, the slow phantom motion of a vow already dead.
I tugged the corner of my mouth.
"All right."
"We'll do as you say."
Once he had his answer, Lorenzo visibly relaxed.
He even showed a smile, rare in all this time.
"Then it's settled."
"I'll let Gianna know now."
"One o'clock this afternoon. I'll see you at the club."
He bent his head to fix his cufflinks as he spoke, then turned and headed for the door.
At the doorway, he suddenly stopped.
And looked back at us.
"Son."
"Thank you both for understanding."
The only answer was the silence of the room.
Neither Matteo nor I said anything.
We just watched him go.
Until the reinforced door slowly closed.
And the last trace of hope on Matteo's face vanished with it.
In silence, he fit the supercar model back into its box.
His movements careful, as if he were putting away something precious.
Then he slid down off the couch.
Dragging the little suitcase he'd packed long ago, he came over to me.
He tilted his head up and asked,
"Mamma."
"Let's not go to the club, okay?"
"I don't want to wait anymore."
In that moment, my heart ached for him.
Because I knew.
What he was giving up wasn't the club.
It was his father.
I crouched down and held him gently.
And ran my hand through his soft hair.
"Mamma's already rebooked the flight."
"Two o'clock this afternoon. We're going back to Los Angeles."
Matteo nodded hard.
No sorrow.
No tears.
As if he'd finally set down something heavy.
And I got up and walked into the kitchen.
In this estate by the water where I'd lived for years.
To make one last breakfast for my son and me.
The last time, too, that I would stand here as the Donna of the Moretti house.
