Chapter Thirty-eight
Lorenzo
The kitchen smells like fresh espresso and warm bread, sunlight bleeding weakly through the tall windows. My mother is already up, dressed, her long gray curls loose over her shoulders. She moves quietly, like the house itself is still asleep.
“Here, dear, your espresso.” She places the cup in front of me. Her voice is soft, but there’s an undercurrent to it, like she already knows I didn’t come home for sentimental reasons.
Serena’s still upstairs, curled in my bed.
She needs the rest. We arrived late, ate, showered, and collapsed.
I, on the other hand, have been awake since six.
I paced my old bedroom for an hour, trying to decide how the hell I’m going to ask my mother about Thomas Beaumont without detonating something I can’t control.
I take the cup, the heat steadying my grip. “Thank you, Mother.” I sip, watching her, waiting for the right opening. “I actually wanted to speak to you about something.”
Her face stills. She sets her own cup down carefully. “I figured there was another reason for you coming home besides seeing your mother.” Not accusing, just matter-of-fact. She’s known me my entire life; she can smell an ulterior motive before I even open my mouth.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need you to be honest.” My voice is calm, but inside, my patience is thin. I take another sip, then lean forward. “I need to know what kind of business my father had with Thomas Beaumont.”
Her fingers twitch, moving against each other like she’s kneading invisible fabric. “Serena,” she says quietly.
My jaw tightens. “What about her?”
“She’s the reason you’re asking, isn’t she? She’s his daughter.”
Not surprised. I’d told her Serena’s last name. And in New York, there aren’t many Beaumont worth mentioning.
I push my chair back, come around to sit beside her. I catch her restless hands and hold them still. “She’s not the reason I’m asking.” It’s half a lie, I need answers for more than business reasons. But the truth is, knowing her father’s past might change how I handle her… how I protect her.
She meets my eyes, her own gaze sharp, searching. “Your father never had direct business with Thomas Beaumont,” she says finally. “They were acquaintances. That’s all I know.”
I study her face. She’s too composed for that to be the whole truth. “Then why did he beat him?” I pause, let the weight of the words land. “To death, to be more exact.”
Her eyes widen, not with surprise that I know, but that I’m asking.
“Don’t lie to me, Mother.” My voice is lower now, rougher.
“I’m here because I need your help to understand.
All these years I thought my father was someone…
and now I know he was someone else. He beat the Attorney General to death and walked away from it.
He was involved with Cosa Nostra.” I lean closer. “What else?”
Her eyes glisten, her voice trembling. “Your father was a good man.” She swallows hard. “I’m so sorry for what happened to him.”
“I’m not asking for condolences.”
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, and now her voice cracks. Tears spill over. “Thomas Beaumont and John Archibald are bad men.”
The name makes my blood go cold. I never mentioned John. Not once.
“You know about Archibald?”
She grips my hand like she can anchor me in place. “Please, stay away from them.”
“Did they have something to do with his death?”
Her tears come faster, her words breaking apart. “My dear son, there’s so much you don’t know.”
“Then tell me!” The snap is out before I can stop it. Regret hits immediately when I see her flinch.
“They’re both bad men,” she whispers. “If he finds out you’re with his daughter, he will kill you.” Her voice shakes harder. “I like Serena. She’s a good person, with a lovely heart… but please, stay away from them.”
And just like that, she pulls her hands from mine and leaves the kitchen.
I hear her in the hall, hear Serena’s soft, sleepy voice, “Are you okay?” and my mother’s choked reply: “You’re a lovely girl.”
Serena’s confusion is clear in her voice, but my mother is already walking away, leaving behind the smell of espresso, the sting of old lies, and more questions than I came here with.
Serena steps toward me, her brows drawn in concern.
I can’t tell her what I’m thinking, not yet.
Hell, I don’t even know what I’m thinking.
My mother just confirmed, without saying it outright, that my target isn’t just Thomas Beaumont…
it’s Archibald as well. She didn’t flinch when I said what I knew, but she gave me nothing useful either.
Is she afraid? Is she protecting me? Or is she protecting herself because they really did kill my father?
Is that why she’s been tucked away here in Florence like a ghost for years?
“Is everything okay?” Serena asks gently. “Why was Sofia crying? Have you been mean to her?”
A humorless smile pulls at my lips. “I wish that was the case.” My voice is low, rougher than I intend. I don’t have a single clear answer, only a mess of possibilities. “Get dressed. I want to go somewhere.”
She tilts her head, curiosity flickering, but she doesn’t press. “Okay.” She leans down, presses a soft kiss to my lips, sets her coffee down, and disappears back toward our bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later, she’s back, fresh-faced, beautiful, like she walked straight out of a painting.
I’m still at the table, lost in my head.
The fact that I’m about to take her to my father’s grave…
I can’t decide if it’s an act of trust or insanity.
My father would probably roll in his grave if he knew who I was bringing.
We head out to the car. Nicolas offers to drive, but I refuse. I need to do this myself. Just me, and the man who made me who I am.
The cemetery isn’t far. The closer we get, the quieter my thoughts become, not calmer, just quieter. Like the silence before a storm.
We pull into the small gravel lot. The gates rise ahead, tall and wrought iron, their black paint chipped from years of sun and rain.
Beyond them, the grounds are lush, green, almost beautiful.
You wouldn’t think this place held so much grief.
Every stone is a name, a story. A father. A mother. A child. Too many endings.
We step through the gate, walking the narrow path between rows of graves.
Serena’s hand is in mine, warm, grounding.
I feel the slight tremor in her fingers.
She’s looking around quietly, reading names as we pass.
When her gaze catches on a tiny headstone, a baby’s, her eyes glisten.
No grave should ever be that small. She holds the bouquet we bought on the way, her knuckles white around the stems.
My father’s grave isn’t far from the entrance. I spot it instantly, the tall stone, polished marble, his name carved deep in clean letters:
Giovanni Moretti
In loving memory of a devoted husband, father, and friend.
Your strength, wisdom, and love remain with us forever.
1957 – 2015
There’s a photo set into the stone, him smiling, proud, the kind of look that used to make me feel like I could take on the world. My chest tightens. 2015, the year my life broke in half. The year I stopped being just a son and became a man with blood on his hands.
Serena kneels in front of the stone, carefully placing the fresh flowers into the vase. She pulls out the old ones, there aren’t many, and they’re still half-alive. My mother must come here often.
My vision blurs. My throat feels too tight.
I can’t lose it here, not in front of her, not in front of him.
Then I feel it, Serena’s hand sliding into mine, squeezing, a soft, steady pressure that somehow cracks my chest open even more.
She gives me a small smile, the kind that isn’t meant to fix anything, just to let me know she’s here. And it fucking destroys me.
We stand there in silence for five minutes, the world hushed around us except for the faint rustle of the trees. I lower myself onto the bench beside his grave. From here, I can see every detail of the photo, every line of the engraving.
“Tell me about him,” she says softly, her voice barely above the wind.
And just like that, the memories start coming, sharp, vivid, like no time has passed at all.
“I was seven when he started teaching me chess,” I say, eyes lifting to the pale stretch of sky above the cemetery.
“He’d beat me every single time.” A faint, humorless laugh escapes.
“But I didn’t care. I was just happy he wanted to spend time with me.
I knew he was a busy man… but he always made time for his family. ”
My gaze drops to the marble, to his name etched into it. “He adored my mother,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “She wasn’t just his wife, she was his whole life. While he loved us all, she was… his world.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth as the memories unfurl. “He’d bring her flowers, always her favorites, chocolates, summer dresses. And at two in the morning, when they thought no one was watching, they’d dance in the kitchen. No music, just… them.”
My throat tightens. “They’d laugh. Hug. Whisper to each other. And I’d be sitting on the stairs in the dark, just watching… thinking how fucking lucky I was to have parents like that.”
A single tear slips down my cheek before I even realize it’s there. I don’t know if Serena notices, she’s crying quietly, her eyes red, her lashes wet.
I stopped crying a decade ago. The night I found out he was gone, I cried until my chest felt hollow.
Then something in me burned out, and I never let it come back.
I remember signing the papers my mother pushed across the desk, transferring everything to me, the business, the responsibilities, the weight.
And then I remember being in my car. Driving.
Ending up at Kirill’s fighting club without even thinking.