Chapter 8 - The Confession in the Dark
The Church of St. Anthony was empty and silent, lit only by the soft, flickering light of a hundred prayer candles burning before the statue of the Virgin Mary.
Lorenzo sat in the front pew, his head resting in his hands.
He looked older. The dark hair at his temples had begun to turn gray over the last seven months, and his strong jaw was hollowed by months of sleeplessness and grief.
Victor walked down the central aisle, his heavy footsteps echoing against the high stone arches. He sat down in the pew beside Lorenzo.
For five minutes, neither man spoke.
"You killed Dominic," Lorenzo said quietly, his voice hollow.
"He was planning a coup," Victor replied simply. "He thought you were dead."
"Part of me is, Victor," Lorenzo whispered, looking up at the stained-glass windows depicting angels weeping over the cross. "I don't care about the docks. I don't care about the union. I don't care about the empire."
Victor turned his head, looking at the young man he had helped raise.
"If I tell you where she is, Lorenzo," Victor said, his voice solemn and heavy, "you cannot go there as Lorenzo Moretti, the boss of New York. If you go there as the king, she will run again, and you will break whatever small piece of her heart is left."
Lorenzo’s head snapped toward Victor, his dark eyes burning with a sudden, wild fire. "You know where she is?"
Victor’s jaw set tight. "I helped her leave."
Lorenzo stood up so fast his pew creaked under the sudden movement. His fists clenched, his veins bulging against his neck. "You betraying bastard! You helped my wife leave me?!"
"I saved her life!" Victor shouted back, standing up to face him without a single trace of fear. "She was dying in that penthouse, Lorenzo! She was begging you to look at her, to love her, to be a husband instead of a CEO! She told you she was pregnant at the gala, and you looked at your phone!"
Lorenzo froze as if he had been struck by lightning.
The words slammed into his chest, tearing down the last walls of his pride, his denial, and his arrogance.
She told you she was pregnant at the gala... and you looked at your phone.
Lorenzo sank back onto the wooden bench, covering his face with both hands as a dry, terrible sob tore out of his chest.
"God help me," Lorenzo wept, his broad shoulders shaking violently in the silent church. "God forgive me... I didn't hear her... I didn't hear her..."
Victor stood over him, his heart breaking for the boy he loved like a son. He reached out, placing a heavy, firm hand on Lorenzo’s trembling shoulder.
"She is in Maine, Lorenzo," Victor whispered softly. "At the caretaker's cottage on the ocean bluff. She is seven months pregnant with your daughter."
May you like
Lorenzo looked up, his face covered in tears, his eyes filled with a desperate, terrified hope. "A daughter?"
"Go to her, Lorenzo," Victor said gently. "Leave your gun. Leave your security. Leave your name behind. Go there as the boy who drove six hours in the rain for strawberry pie. That is the only man she will ever let back into her life."
