Before we returned to New York, Renaldi took me to see someone.

Mrs. Caruso. The old housekeeper who had helped me fake my death all those years ago.

She had been hiding in an abandoned convent in the New Jersey suburbs. The moment she saw me, she cried so hard she could barely stand.

“Donna… I thought I’d never see you again in this life.”

I held her up.

“Don’t call me that anymore.”

Mrs. Caruso wiped her tears and placed a metal lockbox in my hands. The edges were blackened from fire.

“I dug this out from under the ruins after you left.”

Inside the box were several letters with scorched yellow edges.

And an obsidian cuff link.

The Visconti family’s V crest was carved into the back. It was the same cuff link Donovano had put on with his own hands the year we married.

I opened the letters one by one.

My fingers shook.

They were written by Donovano.

The first was from the third day after my fake death.

He wrote: [Serafina, if you’re still alive, come back. Hate me. Curse me. Just let me know you’re still here.]

The second was from the seventh day.

[I’ve dealt with everyone who failed you that night, but I still can’t find a single trace of you. Not even one.]

The third was from the third month.

[If you’re really dead, I’ll make all of New York remember your name.]

The last letter was written last year. His handwriting was almost illegible.

[My Donna, I dreamed of you again. You were holding a child outside the gates of the Visconti estate, but you refused to come in.]

I gripped the paper and couldn’t speak for a long time.

The day I returned to New York, black SUVs lined the curb outside Teterboro Airport.

It didn’t look like they were bringing back a fugitive.

It looked like they were welcoming home the lady of the house after years of absence.

Grey came to pick us up himself. Visconti soldiers followed behind the convoy, sealing every exit tight.

Cassian pressed himself against the car window and asked quietly,

“Mom, are we going to meet my dad?”

My throat tightened.

“Who taught you to say that?”

He blinked.

“Grey did.”

I looked in the direction he pointed.

Grey stood outside the car, looking down as he adjusted his gloves, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.

I wanted to kick him into the airport fountain.

The convoy didn’t drive straight to the Visconti mansion. Instead, it took us to a private estate by the Hudson.

Donovano knew I wouldn’t want to walk back through Visconti’s front doors under the eyes of the entire underworld.

The moment I stepped out of the car, I saw a man standing at the top of the steps.

Five years had passed.

Donovano had lost so much weight.

His face was still painfully handsome, but something about him looked washed in winter darkness, pale in the way only the long-sick could be.

He stared at me without moving.

As if he was afraid this was another dream.

Cassian spoke first.

“Are you my dad?”

One sentence split five years wide open.

A storm rose in Donovano’s eyes. He looked at the boy. His throat moved, and his eyes slowly turned red.

I pulled Cassian behind me.

“Don Visconti, don’t confuse him.”

Donovano looked at me as if he hadn’t heard a word.

He only said, low and hoarse,

“You’re alive.”

I said flatly, “Thanks to you, barely.”

His eyes trembled, as if the words had cut straight into him.

But he didn’t get angry.

He only took two steps toward me, his voice frighteningly gentle.

“Serafina, you’re home. That’s enough.”

I stepped back.

“I’m not here to reminisce.”

“Then why are you here?”

I met his eyes.

“To ask Don Visconti to spare me and my child.”

The air went still.

Every trace of color drained from Donovano’s face.

He stared at me and asked slowly,

“You and your child?”

“Yes.”

“You and whose child?”

I almost laughed from sheer anger.

“You summoned my soul for five years, and now you’re asking me that?”

Cassian didn’t understand everything, but he could feel the tension. He clung to my leg and said nothing.

Donovano’s gaze fell to his face.

A long time passed before he said hoarsely,

“His name is Cassian?”