Dante Moretti POV
I left Isabella at her apartment door without a kiss, without a single word.
Her voice chased me down the hallway, shrill and demanding, clawing for a promise of my return. But the sound was drowned out by the roar of blood rushing in my ears.
I climbed into my car. The engine roared to life, a beast roused from slumber, but I didn't know where to steer it.
I drove.
I navigated past the gleaming high-rises where I laundered the Family's dirty money. I drove past the sprawling docks where my shipments came in. None of it mattered. The city I owned felt like a gilded cage.
My hands turned the wheel instinctively, bypassing the main avenues and guiding me to a small, unassuming street in the Old District.
I idled in front of a bakery: *The Gingerbread House.*
Elara loved this place. I knew it only because I saw the charges on her credit card statements every month. I had never asked her about it. I had never stepped foot inside.
Until now.
I got out. The bell chimed softly as I pushed the door open. The smell of ginger and molasses hit me instantly—a warm, spicy scent that I suddenly realized clung to Elara’s hair sometimes.
"We're closing, sir," the old woman behind the counter said, wiping her hands on her apron.
"I need a box," I rasped, my voice sounding rough, like gravel. "The soft ginger cookies. The ones with the lemon glaze."
She peered at me, her eyes narrowing behind her spectacles. "For the lady with the sad eyes? We haven't seen her in weeks."
*The lady with the sad eyes.*
I bought the box. It felt heavy in my hand, heavier than it should have been, like a brick of lead.
I got back in the car and drove to a florist. I bought two dozen Pink Ginger Lilies.
The memory of our anniversary clawed at my throat. I remembered handing Elara the bouquet of deep red roses—flowers explicitly ordered for Isabella—and the way her face had gone blank. Not angry. Just blank. Like a light switch flickering off in an empty room.
I drove home.
The estate loomed against the night sky, a dark monolith. The windows were black eyes staring back at me, accusing.
I stepped inside. The silence was a physical weight. It pressed against my eardrums, suffocating.
I went to the master bedroom. It smelled of lemon polish and stale air. Her scent—that subtle, comforting mix of vanilla and drafting paper—was fading.
The nightstand was bare. The wedding photo that had sat there for three years was gone. A square of clean, dust-free paint marked where it used to be.
I yanked open the drawer. Empty.
No. Not empty.
A single, crumpled sheet of paper lay forgotten in the back corner.
I pulled it out, smoothing the wrinkles. It was a medical report from the Family Clinic. The date was two days ago.
*Patient: Elara Moretti.*
*Diagnosis: Spontaneous Abortion / Hemorrhage secondary to physical trauma.*
*Notes: Critical blood transfusion delayed due to supply reallocation per Priority Order #4491.*
I stared at the number.
#4491.
My authorization code.
The memory slammed into me, a physical blow to the gut. The phone call. The doctor’s hesitant, trembling voice. *"Sir, we have limited stock of O-negative."*
And my own voice, cold and dismissive. *"Keep it for Isabella. Just in case."*
My knees hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud.
I read the line again. *Spontaneous Abortion.*
I hadn't just lost a wife.
I had killed my own child.
