It had been three days since he'd sat at the Casanova kitchen counter with a cookie in one hand and a boy with his eyes in front of him.
Three days since Enzo had looked up at him and smiled like he hadn't just met the man who missed his first steps, his first words, his first six birthdays.
And yet… what Alessandro felt wasn't peace.
It was rage.
He stood in his penthouse, the skyline of New York stretched behind him like a glass prison. But his reflection in the window wasn't calm, or composed—it was taut, his jaw clenched, his hands white-knuckled at his sides.
His grandfather had known.
He didn't have proof, not yet, but the math was too clean, the history too clear. The way the old man had always sneered when Bell's name came up, the way he'd demanded Alessandro leave her behind like she was nothing but a stain on their legacy.
He remembered that summer too well—how hard he'd fought.
How much he'd begged.
How empty he'd felt when he got on that plane.
And now he had proof of what that exile had cost him.
A son.
A life.
A thousand moments he would never get back.
He reached for his phone, flipping through his calendar—meetings, calls, responsibilities stacked like bricks laid by his grandfather's hand. All of it, shaped by a man who had taken and taken and called it duty.
Alessandro had played the part. He had followed the rules.
But this… this was unforgivable.
He grabbed his keys off the marble counter, his mind made up.
He pulled out his phone, only one name in mind.
Bella
Alessandro's hand hovered over the screen, her contact glowing back at him.
The last time he'd stood on the threshold of a goodbye, he hadn't called. He hadn't explained. He'd disappeared.
And that had cost him seven years.
He wouldn't make that mistake again.
He hit the call button.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
He was starting to doubt she'd pick up.
"Hello?"
Her voice came through low, guarded.
He took a breath.
"It's me. I—Bell, I'm not calling to argue. I just… I wanted to let you know something."
Silence crackled between them.
"Okay," she said finally.
"I'm going to Italy," he said. "Tonight."
Another pause. He imagined her brows drawing in, lips pressing into that familiar line she wore when she didn't like what she was hearing.
"Why?"
"Because I need to speak to my grandfather. I need to look him in the eye and ask him why. Why he did what he did. Why he took everything from me."
Bell's voice dropped.
"You think he knew?"
"I know he knew," Alessandro said, a cold edge threading through the words. "I didn't see any of your calls. Any of your messages. And now… knowing he had my phone, knowing what he said to you when you tried to call again—" He cut himself off. "I can't let that go."
More silence. And then her voice, softer this time.
"Enzo's going to ask where you are."
Alessandro swallowed hard.
"You can tell him… I had something important to take care of. Something I should have taken care of a long time ago."
He heard her exhale through the line.
"Okay," she said, after a long moment. "Just… let me know when you're back."
"I will," he promised. "And Bell?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For everything you did… even when I didn't deserve it."
She didn't say anything, but the line didn't click off. And for a moment, he let himself believe she was listening just a little longer, letting it sit there between them.
He ended the call. Grabbed his passport. And booked the next flight to Rome.
This wasn't business.
This was blood.
And it was time to finally confront the man who'd shaped everything… and broken it all.
...
Bell stared at her phone even after the call ended, the screen black but her thoughts loud.
He was going to Italy.
He was going to confront the man who'd pulled the strings that unraveled both their lives.
The same man who, once upon a time, gave her a cold smile at a Marchetti dinner table and didn't look twice at the girl sitting beside his heir.
She lowered the phone slowly, setting it on the kitchen counter like it might still buzz. Like he might call back.
He wouldn't.
He was already gone.
Bell braced her hands against the edge of the counter, trying to breathe, trying to stay grounded. But her heart was louder than logic. Louder than time.
Seven years ago, he left and said nothing.
Now he was leaving again — but this time, not running away. Not ghosting. Not hiding behind duty or fear.
This time, he was fighting.
That thought sat in her chest differently.
It was strange, how even now, a part of her still wanted to be angry with him. She had every right to be.
But another part… a quieter, more fragile part… remembered the boy who used to lie beside her under the oak tree. The boy who made promises with his eyes before he even spoke them.
And maybe he had broken every one.
But tonight, he was trying to fix something.
She didn't know what would come of it.
But for the first time in a long time, she hoped he came back.
And not just for Enzo.
But maybe… for her too.