Zachary’s POV
Patriarch Sebia’s eightieth birthday was not merely a celebration—it was a ritual.
An event where every expression was calculated, every smile rehearsed, every gesture weighed for consequence. This was the kind of gathering where reputations were reinforced or quietly buried, where one wrong word could echo through boardrooms and bloodlines for years.
Perfection wasn’t optional. It was mandatory.
I entered the grand ballroom with Nina at my side, her pregnancy now unmistakable beneath the silk gown chosen by my staff. Conversations dipped as we passed. Eyes followed. Whispers moved like currents beneath calm water. I ignored all of it, my expression locked into the neutral mask I’d worn since becoming Don.
Inside, though, every instinct was on edge.
Something was wrong.
I didn’t release Nina’s hand until my grandfather made his entrance.
Patriarch Sebia commanded the room without effort. He always had. He wasn’t just the head of the famiglia—he was its foundation. A man who had built an empire with patience, discipline, and fear, yet had always treated me with a measured warmth he rarely extended beyond blood.
His gaze found mine immediately.
“Where is Avery?” he asked, without preamble.
The question hit harder than I expected.
I swallowed, keeping my voice level. “She’s occupied,” I replied smoothly. “She wanted to prepare something meaningful for your birthday. She’ll arrive later.”
The words sounded convincing. Even to my own ears.
Sebia studied me in silence, his eyes sharp, searching for cracks. The weight of that scrutiny made my chest tighten—but he said nothing more.
An hour passed.
Then another.
The ballroom filled with controlled laughter, crystal glasses clinking, respectful greetings exchanged between capos, politicians, and old-money investors. Yet Avery never appeared.
I found myself glancing toward the doors more often than I cared to admit. My jaw tightened with every passing minute.
Where the hell was she?
Just as I considered stepping away to make a call, a young courier appeared at the entrance.
He carried three carefully wrapped packages.
His posture was stiff, his hands faintly trembling—not from the weight, but from the room itself. His eyes darted between me and my grandfather, clearly uncertain who held greater authority in that moment.
“Delivery for Patriarch Sebia,” he announced. “From Ms. Avery.”
The sound of her name stalled everything inside me.
I cleared my throat. “Give them to me.”
He hesitated. “I was instructed to deliver them directly to the Patriarch, sir. Her instructions were… precise.”
Of course they were.
I stepped aside, gesturing toward my grandfather. “Then follow them.”
Sebia was in the middle of a quiet exchange with a board member when the courier approached. He bowed respectfully.
“These are from Ms. Avery,” he said. “She sends her birthday wishes.”
Sebia blinked, genuine confusion crossing his face. “Why didn’t she come herself?” he asked. “Where is she?”
The courier shook his head. “I was only assigned delivery, sir.”
A crease formed between my grandfather’s brows. Disappointment—unmistakable and heavy—settled into his expression. Still, he accepted the packages with practiced grace, placing them carefully on the table beside him.
His fingers lingered on the topmost box.
As if waiting for it to explain her absence.
I stepped closer, heart pounding despite myself. “Would you like me to open them for you?” I asked quietly.
“No,” he said at once. “I’ll do it.”
The first package revealed a hand-embroidered tapestry.
The craftsmanship was staggering—months of labor evident in every stitch. I knew how much time it had taken. I’d seen her hands raw and bleeding as she worked late into the night. The design honored longevity, lineage, legacy—everything my grandfather valued.
Sebia lifted it slowly, eyes shining as he traced the threads with unsteady fingers.
The second package followed.
Wrapped in velvet.
Inside lay a set of heirloom jewelry—the pieces that had once belonged to my grandmother. The same set Avery had worn on our wedding day.
My throat closed.
Why would she send these back?
The weight of it pressed down on my chest, heavy and unmistakable. My palms dampened.
Then there was the third box.
It sat there, silent.
Something in my gut twisted violently.
I didn’t wait.
My hand moved before reason could stop it, snatching the box from the courier. Sebia shot me a sharp look—but he didn’t interfere.
I tore away the wrapping.
And froze.
The contents drained the color from my face.
My breath caught, shallow and sharp, as my fingers trembled around the box. The meaning hit all at once—cold, deliberate, devastating.
This wasn’t a gift.
It was a message.
One I couldn’t unsee.
One the entire room would soon understand.
