Chapter 10 #2
"As for succession." I continued. "What I've done these three years, you've all seen. East Coast territory, Chicago agreement, and those traitors who wanted to turn, who handled it?"
No one spoke.
"Me," I said. "Not you, not the Elders Council. Me. So, if you want to replace me? Fine. Replace me. See who can sit steady in this seat. But I'm telling you—"
My gaze swept over everyone present.
"Whoever sits there, I'll make sure they die there."
Silence.
Long, long silence.
The old man sitting in the corner, the oldest, Elder Kosel, spoke.
"Enough," he said, voice soft but firm. "Ezio is the family head. This was the late head's wish, and the family council's decision three years ago. Going back on it now isn't proper."
He looked at Hart.
"As for the marriage, Ezio already has a wife and has an heir. We'll explain to the Colonnas."
Hart opened his mouth, wanted to say something, but finally shut it.
"Meeting's over." The old man stood up, leaning on his cane, and walked out. "Next month we'll hold the succession ceremony."
He left.
The others stood up one by one, followed him out.
Marco still lay on the table. Someone helped him toward the door, blood dripping all the way. He looked back at me. That look was full of hate.
I didn't care.
Hart finally stood up, staring at me.
"Ezio, you'll regret this."
"Get out."
He stared at me for a few seconds, finally turned around, and left without looking back.
Only Sebastian and I remained in the conference room.
"Dude." He came over, patted my shoulder. "You were pretty brutal today."
"He deserved it."
"I know," he said, voice softer. "But you need to be careful. Hart's faction won't let this go."
"Let them come."
Sebastian looked at me, then laughed.
"Good," he said. "My Don, you call the shots. But—"
He paused.
"Bianca's situation, what are you going to do?"
"I'll handle it."
"That child—"
"I'll verify," I said, looking at him. "If it really is mine, I'll take responsibility. But not with marriage."
He nodded.
"Got it." He patted my shoulder. "Call me if you need anything."
He turned and left.
I stood there, staring at the blood on the table.
And that knife I'd just driven through Marco's palm, still stuck in the tabletop, blade buried deep in the wood.
When I walked out of the conference room, my phone rang.
Elsa.
I answered.
"Sir."
"What?"
"Mrs. Visconti..." Her voice was shaking. "She's gone."
My world stopped for a moment.
"What?"
"She left this morning. Carrying a suitcase, said she was going out. I asked if she needed a car arranged, and she said no. Then she just...just left."
"How long ago?"
"About..." Her voice shook harder. "About five hours ago, sir. I thought she was just going out to clear her head, but I just checked her room, all her things are gone."
I hung up.
Rushed out of the building, ran to the parking lot, got in the car, drove toward the manor.
The whole way, my mind was blank.
She left.
She really left.
Because of me.
Because last night I treated her like an animal.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
When the car stopped at the manor entrance, the tires left a black streak on the ground.
I jumped out, rushed through the door, up the stairs.
Elsa stood in the hallway. Seeing me, she opened her mouth.
"Sir!"
I ignored her.
Went straight to her room.
The door was half open.
I pushed it.
Empty.
The curtains were drawn. Sunlight poured in, fell on that empty bed. The blanket was neatly folded, perfectly arranged, like no one had ever slept there.
I walked to the closet.
Pulled it open.
Empty.
Those clothes, those shoes, those few things she'd brought from home—
All gone.
I stood in front of that empty closet, felt something hollow out in my chest.
She really left.
She left nothing behind.
I turned around, stared at that room.
The bed was empty, the desk was empty, even the curtains she rarely opened now just hung there quietly, like nothing had happened.
My gaze fell on the corner of the bed.
On the floor, something was there.
I walked over, picked it up.
A sweater. Gray, very soft. The cuff had a small stain from when she got it dirty in the garden that day.
I brought it to my nose.
Her scent.
Faint, like cotton dried in sunlight, like jasmine in the garden, like that clean smell after she showered.
I closed my eyes.
That scent was still there.
But she wasn't.
I drove her away.
Suddenly, rage surged up from my chest.
What the hell was I doing? She left, and I'm standing here smelling her sweater like some pervert, like an idiot, like an abandoned dog.
"Fuck!"
I shouted, threw the sweater hard on the floor, then punched the wall.
The wall cracked.
My knuckles split, blood ran down the back of my hand, dripped on the floor.
I stared at that sweater.
It lay there quietly, crumpled in a heap.
Then I bent down again. Picked it up.
Clutched it in my hand.
All my fault.
I drove her away.
Her pale face floated into my mind, and that thin body, so weak a gust of wind could blow her away.
Like that, where could she go?
My fingers twitched nervously. I clenched them into a fist, pressed them into my palm. I took a deep breath, forced myself to calm down, called Carlo.
"Find out where Olivia Adrian went. All surveillance, all records, all possible routes—I want to know where she is now."
I paused, added. "Also, check on Susan Adrian. See if she's been in contact with Olivia recently."
"Yes, boss."
I hung up, stood in her room, clutching that sweater.
Five hours. Enough time for her to leave this city, even this country.
I closed my eyes.
All I could see was her face.
That pale, gaunt face with nothing in those eyes.
I remembered last night, when she said, "I hate you," that look in her eyes.
I remembered her turning away those two inches.
I remembered when she asked, "Am I your wife or your tool?" that voice.
All my fault.
I pushed her away.
I hurt her.
I—
"Ezio?" A soft female voice came.
My heart stopped for an instant. I opened my eyes and turned sharply, but the moment I saw who it was, quickly regained composure.
Bianca was carrying a tray with a cup of coffee on it.
"Ezio." She came in, voice gentle and proper, face showing just the right amount of concern. "I heard something happened. Are you okay?"
I didn't speak.
She put the coffee on the table, turned around, looked at me with worry.
"She left?" She asked, regret in her tone. "I heard she left this morning. The guard said she had a suitcase, left in a hurry..."
I stared at her.
"What do you know?"
"Me?" She looked startled. "I don't know anything. Just what I heard."
"Heard what?"
"Heard... she wasn't in a good mood last night." Bianca's voice softened. "Someone heard... noise from your room."
My fingers clutched the sweater tighter.
"What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing." She shook her head, those brown eyes full of sincere concern. "I'm just worried about you. You look exhausted. You didn't sleep well last night, did you?"
"I'm not tired."
"Ezio." She leaned forward a bit, voice softer. "I know you care about her. But some things... you have to accept. She's not suited for life here. Never was from the start."
I stared at her.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." She sighed, like she was choosing her words carefully.
"Her background is too low. Kids who grow up in that kind of family, their way of thinking is different from ours.
When they face problems, their first reaction isn't to confront them—it's to run.
See? Didn't she run? Doesn't want the child, doesn't want you—"
"Enough."
"Ezio, this is for your own good." She reached out, tried to touch my arm.
I moved away.
"One more thing," I said, staring into her eyes. "Hart said you're pregnant."
Bianca's expression froze for a moment.
That instant was brief, so brief you could barely catch it. But I saw it.
"Yes." She lowered her head, hand gently resting on her abdomen, a shy smile appearing on her face. "I was going to tell you myself. Didn't expect the elders to say it first..."
"When did it happen?"
"Three months ago." She looked up at me. "That night... the night you got drunk."
That night.
The night I got drunk.
I tried to remember, couldn't think of anything. Only remembered waking up, her lying next to me naked, smiling and saying, "You were so rough last night."
"I don't remember."
"You drank too much." She said softly, a bit of hurt in her eyes. "Not remembering is normal. But Ezio, this is your child."
I looked at her.
Those eyes, that expression, those words—everything so perfect, so proper, so flawless.
But why did I feel something off I couldn't quite name?
"You sure?" I asked.
She froze.
"What?"
"You sure it's my child?"
Those few seconds of silence cut the air like a knife.
Bianca's face changed. Not a dramatic change, but that subtle, almost imperceptible stiffness. Then she smiled, that smile carrying just the right amount of hurt.
"Ezio, how can you ask that?" Her voice trembled slightly. "We've known each other all these years. Don't you know what kind of person I am? How could I—"
"You'd better not be lying to me. When the child's born, I'll do a paternity test. If it's real, I'll take responsibility. If not, you know what happens when you lie to me."
"You don't believe me?" Her eyes reddened. "You'd rather believe someone who ran away than me?"
She stood up, tears pooling in her eyes.
"I know you're upset. I don't blame you." She sniffled, turned toward the door. "When you've calmed down, we'll talk."
The door closed.
I sat in the chair, clutching that sweater.
Replaying that moment in my head—the instant she froze. That almost imperceptible but definitely real pause.
I'd known her all these years.
What kind of person was she?
I thought I knew.
But now, I wasn't sure.
My phone rang. I answered immediately.
"Talk."
"Boss, we found it. Mrs. Visconti left the manor this morning, bought a ticket to Philadelphia, ten o'clock train."
Philadelphia.
"Then what?"
"Then..." The voice on the other end paused. "Then we lost track. We checked all the hotels in Philadelphia, all the stations. No record of her. No exit records either. She..."
"She what?"
"She vanished into thin air."
I hung up.
Stood up, grabbed my jacket, walked out.
Still clutching that sweater.
I followed that bus route, town by town.
First small town. Showed her photo, asked at gas stations, convenience stores, roadside motels. No one had seen her.
Second town. Same thing.
Third.
Fourth.
Night fell. Streetlights came on one by one, illuminating empty streets.
I kept driving.
Drove to the last place I could track, a tiny town with just one main street, a few stores. I parked, took her photo, asked door to door.
No one had seen her.
I stood on the street. Late night wind poured into my collar. Cold.
Looked up. All around were unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar houses, unfamiliar darkness. She disappeared from here. Somewhere I didn't know about, she vanished. Like a drop of water falling into the ocean, never to be found again.
I got back in the car. Sat there.
The car was quiet. Only the faint light from the dashboard.
I spoke, voice soft.
"She's cold."
In the empty car, that voice sounded ridiculous.
"Doesn't even want the child."
Then I remembered how she looked in the delivery room—ripping out the IV, blood running down the back of her hand, crying, "Let me see her once, just once."
I remembered her standing at the nursery door, face pale, tears streaming down her cheeks, asking, "Can I see her?"
I remembered her staring at the baby in Bianca's arms, eyes full of longing.
But I stopped her, again and again, from seeing her own daughter!
Fuck, I'm a real bastard!
I closed my eyes, slammed my fist on the steering wheel.
The horn blasted a sharp note, exploded in the silent night, carried far, far away, then disappeared.
Nothing changed.
When I drove home, it was already dawn.
The living room lights were on. Bianca sat on the couch. Hearing footsteps, she immediately stood up.
"Ezio, you—"
I ignored her.
Went straight upstairs.
She followed.
"Ezio, where were you? I waited for you all night. Listen to me—"
"Get lost."
She stopped.
I kept going up, to the second floor, to the nursery door. Pushed it open.
The nanny was holding Juliet, pacing around the room.
Juliet was crying.
That piercing, heartbreaking cry echoed through the room.
"Sir." The nanny saw me, looked relieved. "Miss Juliet keeps crying, can't be soothed. Since last night until now, crying on and off."
Since last night.
Since that happened.
I closed my eyes, walked over.
"Give her to me."
"But—"
"Give her to me."
She handed Juliet over.
I took her, held her in my arms.
Juliet was so small, so light, so soft, trembling in my arms, crying nonstop, cried until her voice went hoarse.
"Out," I said.
The nanny paused, nodded, and left.
The door closed.
I held Juliet and walked slowly around the room.
"Don't cry," I said quietly, voice soft, didn't even know what I was saying. "Don't cry, Daddy's here."
She kept crying.
That tiny face, red from crying, tears all over, mouth open, making that heartbreaking sound.
I held her tighter and gently patted her back.
"Stop crying," I repeated.
She cried harder, little hands grabbing my shirt, like searching for something.
What was she searching for?
Searching for that person she'd barely seen but must remember the scent of?
I don't know why, but suddenly I remembered that face in the delivery room.
Pale, weak, covered in sweat, smiling at me.
I remembered those green eyes.
At the nursery door, looking at me, the light dying bit by bit.
I remembered her saying, "I just want to see my child."
Remembered her saying, "Scheduled visits."
Remembered her saying, "Get out."
Remembered last night.
Her tears, her struggle, all those things she cursed at me.
"I know," I said, throat tight. "I know you're looking for her. I'm sorry, Juliet. I'm sorry."
Juliet's crying slowly quieted.
She was still hiccupping, little body still shaking, but stopped crying. Those green eyes just like hers, wet, looked at me.
Then she reached out her little hand.
Touched my chin.
The gesture was soft, careful, like confirming something.
I froze.
Looked down at this little thing in my arms.
She was still looking at me, tears not yet dry in her eyes, but no longer crying. Just looking at me like that, looking at the stubble on my chin, looking at my eyes.
I held her tight.
"Daddy," I said, voice hoarse. "I'm Daddy."
Outside the window, the night was thick and impenetrable.
She touched my chin again, then finally settled down, buried her face in my shoulder, innocently fell asleep.
I held her, held her tight.