Nico burst into sobs, a blotchy, red welt already blooming on his cheek.
Renato froze, his hand still in the air. He seemed about to say something, but his phone rang.
"Renato, where are you? Leo is crying for you. He had a nightmare and won't stop..." Isabella Rossi's delicate voice whispered through the phone, a child's wails echoing in the background.
Renato's tone softened instantly. "Tell Leo that Papa will be right back. Tell him to be a good boy."
He hung up and impatiently dropped Nico, as if the doting father from moments ago was a figment of my imagination.
"I have to go. You and Nico wait for me here. Don't go anywhere. I'll have my men watch the door."
The cavernous halls of the art museum stretched out behind us. Renato and his men hurried away, off to comfort Isabella and her son.
It was just like eight years ago, when one call from Isabella was enough for him to abandon me, pregnant and bleeding, in a firefight. Some habits die hard.
Nico was on the verge of a panic attack, so I told my director we had an emergency and slipped out the back door with him.
After we returned to our temporary apartment, I settled him into bed and received a call from an informant.
"Scarlett, Renato Colombo is digging into your background. Don De Luca's people have already intercepted the information. Do you need us to take care of the source?"
"No. No need to escalate."
We were only in Aethelburg for a week. After that, Renato and I would return to our separate lives, parallel lines that would never cross.
But I had underestimated his reach in this city.
Less than an hour after I hung up, the doorbell rang.
"Scarlett, open the door. Don't make me break it down."
Renato stood on the threshold, holding a custom-made toy gun. He scanned the elegant but modest apartment, his eyes filled with open disdain.
"You live in a place like this? This isn't even as big as a bedroom in the Colombo estate. Is this what you call happiness? You left me for this pathetic, low-class life?"
His condescending gaze was a ghost from eight years ago, echoing the refrains from his men and his mother: I was too delicate, too argumentative, too ungrateful for the gilded cage he'd built. I needed to suffer to learn my place—that a woman's only purpose was to please her man.
Eight years had passed, and he seemed to think I had finally learned my lesson. He thrust the expensive toy gun at me as if bestowing a great honor.
"A welcome gift for Nico. Boys should play with guns, not paintbrushes."
I calmly took the toy and dropped it into the trash can.
Renato's face turned ashen. "You..."
"This is for Leo, isn't it?" I cut him off. "The ruby on the grip is engraved with an 'L'. Nico's future is in art, not violence."
I remembered the first time I ended up in the emergency room, hit by a stray bullet at his private range. Renato hadn't slept, staying by my side for three days until I woke. But that was before Isabella. After she appeared, these gaudy, ruby-encrusted trinkets began showing up, gifts meant to suit her tastes, not mine.
"Sorry... I grabbed the wrong one."
A flicker of shame crossed his face, a memory of our past, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his familiar, accusatory glare.
"If you hadn't run off, I wouldn't have lost eight years with my son! If he had been by my side, I would damn well know what he likes!"
He snarled, "In the end, this is all your fault! You're too selfish!"
The silence that fell between us was as heavy as a tombstone.
Soon, he dropped the pretense of warmth.
"Nico has Colombo blood in his veins. That's a fact you can't change, and I will never let him call another man father. I'll give you two days to come to your senses. Then I'm coming to get you both. Don't make me use force, Scarlett."
