Chapter 4
Lorenzo
I find Fran in a private room on the maternity ward, propped up against white pillows, her skin washed pale beneath the harsh hospital lights.
Both her parents flank the bed like guards.
Her mother is clutching a rosary so tightly her knuckles are white.
Her father stands rigid, jaw set, eyes sharp and assessing as I enter.
Cesaro waits just outside the door. When he sees me, he dips his head once in respect. A silent confirmation that things were worse than I’d been told.
Fran looks up when she hears my footsteps.
For a moment, I don’t recognize her. Not because she’s changed, but because I haven’t allowed myself to really see her in weeks.
She looks fragile now. Small. Afraid in a way that strips away the sharp edges I usually associate with her.
Her face is free of make-up for once and I remember just how young she truly is.
Just a few years older than Sienna and Elizabeth.
“Lorenzo,” she whispers.
I cross the room in three strides and take her hand without thinking. It’s cool, trembling slightly in mine. The sight of it punches something in my chest.
“How bad was it?” I ask quietly.
Her mother answers before Fran can. “They thought she was losing the baby. There was bleeding. Too much of it.” Her voice cracks despite her obvious effort to stay composed. “They managed to stop it, but she needs rest. No stress. No travel. No excitement.”
Her father watches me carefully, as if weighing whether I am the cause of that stress.
Fran swallows. “I was scared,” she admits. “I thought I was going to lose everything.”
Everything.
I squeeze her hand, firmer this time.
“You’re not,” I say. “I’m here.”
And I mean it.
In this moment standing in a hospital room that smells like antiseptic and fear I finally understand the cost of my indecision. Of my obsession. Of letting my heart wander while my responsibilities remained exactly where they’ve always been.
Elizabeth is gone. And maybe she left because she knew that I would never fully choose her. But Fran is here.
Fran’s eyes shine with unshed tears. “I need you to be here, Lorenzo. Not just today. I can’t do this alone.”
Her parents don’t say a word, but the room is thick with expectation.
I nod once.
“I know,” I say. “And I will be.”
Later, after her parents leave and Fran finally drifts into a restless sleep, I stand at the window and stare out at the city. Somewhere out there, Elizabeth is still missing. Still running. Still haunting every quiet corner of my mind.
But this is real. Fran. This child. This responsibility. This life that nearly slipped through my fingers tonight.
I press my hand to the glass and let the decision settle, heavy and irreversible.
I will be better.
I will be present.
I will do this right.
Even if it means burying the part of me that will always ache for the woman who disappeared.
Because a Don doesn’t get to choose love over legacy.
Fran stays in the hospital for two more days.
By the time we return to the penthouse, the color has come back to her cheeks, though something in her remains dimmed, as if the scare drained more than just her strength.
She speaks when spoken to. She eats when reminded.
She watches me with an expression I can’t quite name. Resignation, maybe.
I help her into my bed, adjusting the pillows until she’s comfortable. It feels wrong in a way I can’t articulate—this room, this bed, now occupied by a woman who was never meant to be here like this with her perfume lingering on Elizabeth’s pillow.
As I turn to leave, she reaches out and takes my hand. Her grip is light and uncertain.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks quietly.
“Doing what?”
She hesitates, her thumb brushing once over my knuckle before stilling. “You brought me here. Not to my house.”
“I did.”
“Why?” Her voice is steady, but her eyes search my face. “We both know you don’t want me here.”
I look down at our joined hands. At the faint tremor in hers. At the swell of her stomach beneath the sheets—proof of everything that’s changed, everything I can’t undo.
“This is my home,” I say at last. “And you’re carrying my child.”
“That’s not an answer,” she says softly.
It’s true. It’s not.
I straighten, pulling my hand from hers gently. “You nearly lost the baby. I’m not taking chances. Here, I can make sure you’re watched. Protected.”
“By you?”
I meet her gaze. “By my people.”
She exhales, a small, humorless sound. “You say that like it’s supposed to comfort me.”
“It should,” I reply. “Nothing will happen to you here.”
Her eyes glisten, just slightly. “That’s not what I asked.”
I don’t answer, because the truth is too sharp, too tangled to speak aloud. Because wanting has nothing to do with duty. And love—real love—has already ruined me once.
She nods slowly, as if she understands anyway.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll stay.”
I turn toward the door, the weight of the choice settling heavy in my chest.
Behind me, her voice follows.
“Lorenzo?”
I pause.
“I don’t need you to love me,” she says. “I just need you not to disappear.”
I don’t promise her anything.
But I stay a moment longer than I should, standing there in the half-light, wondering when exactly my life became a series of choices where no one truly wins.
I’d like to say I stop looking for Elizabeth, but that would be a lie.
I still check my phone the moment I wake up. Still pause when an unfamiliar number flashes across the screen. Still feel that sharp, stupid spark of hope every time Cesaro says, “We followed another lead.” Every day ends the same way. With nothing.
While the answers don’t come, Fran and I settle into a version of life that looks convincing enough from the outside.
We share space. We share meals. We share silences that stretch longer than either of us acknowledges.
She’s careful with herself now, cautious in a way that reminds me constantly of what almost happened.
Two weeks pass.
Then her mother arrives with garment bags, folders, and the kind of energy that bulldozes everything in its path. Wedding planning mode. Decisions that can’t wait. Dates that must be locked in.
I sit beside Fran at the table while fabric swatches are spread out like a dealer’s hand. I nod when asked. I offer opinions when prompted. I smile when I’m supposed to.
Inside, I’m hollow.
Another two weeks crawl by.
And then it hits me. Not all at once, but quietly, like a truth I’ve been circling without wanting to see it.
I’m losing hope.
Elizabeth hasn’t just disappeared. She vanished. There’s no digital trail. No financial activity. No witnesses who remember her clearly enough to matter. Someone didn’t just help her leave. They erased her. And for the first time, I have to face the possibility that I may never find her.
But Fran?
Fran is here. She’s real and breathing and carrying my child. She looks at me with guarded eyes, waiting to see if I’ll finally choose her without hesitation. She deserves stability. She deserves certainty. She deserves a husband who isn’t halfway out the door chasing a ghost.
So when her mother clears her throat and says, “April would be ideal,” I don’t argue.
I look at Fran. Really look at her. And I nod.
“April,” I say. “That works.”
Fran exhales, like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Her fingers tighten around mine, tentative but hopeful.
Everyone at the table smiles.
And I tell myself that this is the right decision.
That choosing what’s in front of me over what’s lost is what a Don does. What a father does. What a man who wants to survive his own mistakes must do.
Still… later that night, alone in the dark, I lie awake staring at the ceiling. And I wonder if agreeing to marry Fran is the moment I finally lose Elizabeth forever. Or if it’s the moment I lose myself.
Our wedding day dawns gray and cold, snow falling in soft, steady sheets that blanket the city in something almost gentle. Half of Chicago shows up. Unlike last time, they’re here to celebrate.
But the church is the same one. The same stone walls. The same pews. The same altar where I buried my daughter.
Sienna sits heavy on my chest as I stand there, hands clasped, breathing through memories I don’t want. My sweet girl didn’t deserve the ending she got. If I had been better—if I had been sharper, more ruthless, more careful—she’d still be alive.
She never would’ve liked Fran. I know that. She would’ve seen through the polish and the politics. But she would have loved the idea of being a big sister. She would’ve been thrilled by it.
The thought nearly undoes me.
A darker one follows close behind. A part of me wonders if her death is my punishment.
For wanting Elizabeth the moment I saw her.
For bringing her into my world instead of leaving her in Kansas City where she was safe.
If I had never pulled her closer, Sienna would never have gone to that club in Chicago. She’d still be alive.
My eyes are still burning when the door opens and Federico steps inside, immaculate as always.
“A gift from my daughter,” he says, setting a box wrapped in white paper on the table beside me.
I manage a smile. “I have one for her as well.”
I hand him the box I brought, but he doesn’t take it right away. He studies me instead.
“You made the right choice,” he says finally. “Mistresses come and go. A wife and a family—that’s what matters in our world.”
The smile on my face tightens until it feels like it might crack my jaw.
“Indeed.”
He nods, satisfied. Then he adds, “Did you ever figure out where that girl ran off to?”
My pulse jumps, but I don’t let it show.
“I haven’t looked,” I lie smoothly.
He hums, thoughtful. “Probably for the best. It would be hard to find her in Europe.”
The words hit like a blade sliding between my ribs.
Europe.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Because I never told anyone I suspected she’d left the country. And Federico is watching me now, that faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s just slid a blade between my ribs and is waiting to see if I notice the pain.
The warning bells in my head aren’t bells anymore. They’re sirens.
Why does he think Elizabeth is in Europe?
So I do what I’ve done my entire life. What made me a Don. What kept me alive.
I play his game.
I tilt my head slightly, letting my expression soften into something amused and dismissive.
“Europe?” I repeat lightly, as if the thought barely merits consideration. “That’s a stretch.”
Federico shrugs, unbothered. “People run far when they’re frightened.”
“She wasn’t frightened,” I say smoothly. “She was emotional. There’s a difference.”
His gaze sharpens just a fraction.
“Still,” he murmurs, “Europe is very good for disappearing. New names. New papers. New lives.”
I chuckle under my breath, forcing a casual confidence I don’t feel. “If she managed that, then good for her. That takes resources.”
And help, a quiet voice in my head finishes.
Federico’s smile deepens. “Exactly.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and dangerous. I can feel the walls of the sacristy closing in, the weight of the church pressing down like judgment. Somewhere outside, the organ starts to play low, solemn notes meant to signal celebration.
I straighten my cuffs. “If that’s all,” I say, my tone cool and final, “I should be getting ready. Fran will be wondering where I am.”
For a moment, I think he’ll push. Say something else to twist the knife.
Instead, he steps back and inclines his head. “Of course. Today is about family.”
As I turn toward the door, my pulse finally breaks loose, pounding hard enough to shake my ribs. Because now I know two things with terrifying certainty. Elizabeth didn’t vanish on her own. And someone very close to me knows exactly where she went.
“Lorenzo,” Federico calls after me. “Don’t forget to open your gift.”
“Of course,” I reply smoothly.
He leaves with the box I brought for Fran tucked under his arm, already moving on to the next obligation. When the door shuts, the room feels smaller.
I stare at the box he left behind. White paper. Crisp edges. Perfect bow. I already don’t like it.
I open it anyway.
Inside is a baby’s dress—white, delicate, stitched with lace so fine it looks like it would dissolve if handled too roughly. Beneath it rests an ultrasound photo, the grainy black-and-white image unmistakable even at a glance.
My fingers curl around the edge of the box as I spot the folded note tucked beside it.
The next one will be a boy.
—Fran
My jaw locks. Not if. Not someday. The next one. It’s a statement and a claim.
The church bells begin to toll outside, distant but insistent, calling me forward whether I’m ready or not. I fold the note once, twice, until it’s a neat square, and slide it back into the box.
I close the lid.
By the time I step into the sanctuary, my face is composed. Calm. The Don in full control.
Snow filters through the stained-glass windows, casting soft light across polished pews and expectant faces. Half the city has come to witness this alliance.
Fran walks down the aisle, and people gasp when they see her designer dress. When she looks at me, there’s relief in her eyes making me think she doesn’t know the same information her father does. No, that kind of look only comes from true fear that I might not have shown up today.
I take my place across from her.
The priest speaks. The words wash over me, familiar and hollow. Vows. Duty. Family. God.
I say everything I’m supposed to say and slide the ring onto her finger.
When she says I do, the I exhale. Because whatever questions I still have—about Federico, about Europe, about how he knows things he shouldn’t—will have to wait.
Today, I become a husband and somewhere, far beyond this church, a woman who holds my heart remains lost to me.
The bells ring louder as we turn to face the crowd.
And I smile.
Because that’s what’s required of me now.