Alessia POV
The cast on my hand was heavy, a shackle made of plaster and ruined dreams.
The doctor they had summoned—a vet who usually stitched up fighting dogs after illicit matches—said I would never hold a brush again. He claimed the nerves were severed, that the bones were dust.
I didn't care. Let the art die. I didn't need to paint anymore. I had a new masterpiece to finish, one painted in consequences rather than oils.
The "due date" arrived two weeks later.
The house was buzzing with anticipation. The medical team was setting up in the guest wing, transforming it into a sterile theater for the heir's arrival. Clara was pacing, eager to claim her prize.
I spent the morning in the nursery. I packed a small bag: stacks of cash, a fake ID I had bought from a cleaner years ago as a desperate contingency, and the keys to an old sedan I kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the gardening shed.
I went to the ventilation shaft in the bathroom and retrieved the container.
I placed the tiny, preserved remains of my son inside the velvet jewelry box Luca had given me for our wedding. It was meant for a diamond necklace. It was lined with black silk.
A fitting coffin.
I placed the box on the pillow in the center of the crib.
I wrote a note. Just three words.
The Vitti Legacy.
I padded my stomach one last time, securing the ruse I had maintained for months. I put on my coat.
I walked downstairs. The guards were distracted, watching the perimeter for Feds, blind to the pregnant wife moving like a phantom inside the fortress.
I told the kitchen staff I was going to the greenhouse to get some air before the labor started. They nodded, too afraid of my husband to question me.
I walked out the back door. The air was crisp. The leaves were turning brown, mirroring the decay of this house.
I didn't run. Running attracts attention. I walked with purpose.
I reached the shed. The old car started with a rough cough before settling into a steady hum.
I drove to the service gate. The guard there was new. He saw the Vitti sticker on the windshield and waved me through, oblivious to the fact that he was opening the cage.
As I drove away from the estate, I didn't look in the rearview mirror.
I felt a strange sensation in my chest. It wasn't fear. It wasn't sadness.
It was the cold, hollow silence of a vendetta fulfilled.
I touched the empty passenger seat.
"Goodbye, Luca."
