I turn back sharply. “I knowme.”
I pull my phone from my pocket, already searching for her name like it might anchor me. Nothing. No missed calls. No messages. No trace.
A hollow opens in my chest.
“She thinks I chose Fran,” I say quietly.
Cesaro doesn’t correct me. That tells me everything.
The truth settles in slow and brutal. Elizabeth didn’t just leave my house. She walked away fromme. And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t know where she is, who she’s with, or whether I’ll ever see her again.
All I know is that no one disappears from my world without consequences. And I will find her. No matter what it costs.
I come up with a plan as the lift carries me toward the penthouse. By the time the doors slide open, I’m ready to execute it.
Instead, the first thing that hits me is the scent.
Fran’s perfume coils through the space and turns my stomach sour. This doesn’t feel like home. It feels like an intrusion.
She’s in the kitchen saying something to Rosa, who’s standing stiffly by the counter, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
“What’s going on here?” I ask.
Rosa turns, relief flooding her face. “Mr. Conti. It’s so good to see you. Would you like something to drink? Perhaps some food?”
“No.” My attention never leaves Fran. “What did you say to Elizabeth?”
Rosa freezes. Then, without a word, she quietly backs out of the kitchen, leaving the two of us alone.
Fran exhales sharply, hand drifting to her stomach. “You might find this hard to believe, but I didn’t say anything to her. I came to take measurements of the closet, and she started yelling at me.”
My jaw tightens.
“I was worried,” she continues, eyes shining. “So I hid in the closet until she was gone.”
I inhale slowly through my nose.
Every instinct I have tells me she’s lying.
But I don’t press her. Not now. Not with her condition. No—I’ll get the truth another way.
Without another word, I turn and head for my study, shutting the door behind me. It takes a moment to log into the security system. When the feed comes up, my stomach sinks.
I see Fran in my bedroom just as she said.
Then someone else enters.
The camera angle catches only her back, her shoulder, the edge of her hair as she moves into the room. But I know it’s Elizabeth. I know it by the way her hands move like she’s trying to hold herself together.
Fran raises her palms, saying something I can’t hear. She takes a step back, her posture defensive and a little calculated. Elizabeth’s shoulders hitch. She turns away, pacing just out of frame, never once looking toward the camera. Then abruptly she leaves. Another camera catches the back of her head as she enters her room. The camera near the elevator shows her with a hoodie on, bag slung over her shoulder. And she doesn’t look back once.
I rewind it. Watch it again. And again. But I never see the moment where I might understand what finally broke her. Only the aftermath.
My chest tightens as the truth settles heavy and sharp in my gut. She didn’t just leave. She walked away without even letting me see her one last time. And for the first time since I became a Don, I don’t feel in control of anything at all.
My next step is simple in theory and infuriating in practice. To find out where she went when she left the penthouse.
The security feed outside shows her slipping into a waiting cab, head down, movements quick and determined. I don’t see her face—only her posture, the way she holds herself like she’s bracing for impact. The car pulls away before I can catch anything else, but I manage to freeze the frame long enough to get the plate number.
